I imagine Tash face-palming at this, despairing at my unkempt mane, my crumpled dress. I’ve always thought of my sister as the slightly more polished version of me: she has three extra inches on my average height, hair a shade or two blonder, skin with a few more lumens’ worth of gleam. Still, Caleb seems relaxed, like he probably doesn’t care too much about smooth hair, or lumens, which is just as well.
“I remember when this was a proper spit-and-sawdust place,” he’s saying, sipping from his pint, his gaze alighting on the dazzling wall of gin bottles behind the bar. “Now it’s all craft ales and signature cocktails and wood-fired pizzas.”
“And perfectly staged Instagram posts.”
“And ridiculous bar snacks.” He slides a bowl across the bar toward me. “Wasabi pea?”
I laugh and shake my head, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest. “I’m more of a Scampi Fries kind of girl.”
Smiling, he raises a fist and we bump knuckles, his hand dwarfing mine.
“So, you’re local?” I ask, wondering if I might be able to find out whether we know each other, somehow.
He nods. “You?”
I nod back.
“This your Friday-night haunt?”
“Not exactly.” I hesitate, but then the words start spilling into the space between us. “I actually... just quit my job.”
His eyes widen. “Wow. Okay. So you’re in here... drowning your sorrows?”
“No. I mean, it was a good thing, quitting. A point of principle.”
“Well, then, congratulations.” He lifts his glass, and then—for just a millisecond—we are looking right into each other’s eyes. I feel my breath flex in my chest, a spread of warmth across my skin. “Good for you.”
“Thank you,” I manage, and then—possibly to distract either him or me from my fluster, which must surely be visible—I say, “So, how about you—are you gainfully employed?”
He nods. “I’m a photographer.”
“Really? For a living?”
He laughs. “Believe it or not, we do exist.”
“Sorry,” I say, mortified. “I just meant... there are a lot of people who dream of doing that, so... I’m impressed.”
He smiles and nods a thank-you. “Well, you’re free now... so what do you dream of doing?”
I hesitate. I could tell him—I’ve always really wanted to write a novel—but that would turn me into the kind of person people try to escape at parties. “Actually, I’m not sure yet.”
“What did you do before you quit?” He’s swiveled round on his stool to face me now, his eyes attentive and bright.
“I worked for an ad agency.”
He sips from his pint, eyebrows elevated. “We have those in Shoreley?”
I laugh. “Just the one, actually. We liked to think of ourselves as small but mighty.”
“And you quit because...?”
I hesitate, and just as I’m thinking of the best way to explain it, I freeze.
No. It can’t be.
I blink rapidly, trying to make out if what I’m seeing is real.
Because, from out of nowhere, on the section of street visible from where I’m sitting, I spot the last person on earth I’d have expected to see.
