"This is surreal," I say, watching the flames dance. "This morning I was in a grocery store parking lot in Billings. Now I'm in a mountain lodge eating homemade pasta during a blizzard with a stranger."
"We’re not strangers," he says. "I’m your supervillain."
"Right."
"So what’s your story?"
"Silicon Valley," he says. "I did the whole thing for a few years. Startups. Venture capital. Got lucky with some equity."
"What brought you back?"
He's quiet for a moment, staring into the fire. "My dad got hurt. Car wreck on the road heading down from town. It was bad, but he pulled through. I came home for a week and realized I hadn't been happy in years." He shrugs. "So I stayed."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that."
I try to imagine it. Walking away from a whole life because home called you back. I can't. Home has never called me anywhere.
He studies the fire. "Your turn. How does someone quit a stable job to sell cinnamon buns out of a truck?"
"I was in marketing. Good job, good salary, good trajectory toward a corner office and a slow death of the soul."
"Dramatic."
"Accurate." I set my plate down, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders. "I was good at it. Really good. But I was building someone else's dream, you know? Selling things I didn't believe in to people who didn't need them."
"So you quit."
"So I quit. Cashed out my 401k, bought a food truck, and taught myself to bake." I laugh, remembering those first disastrous batches. "The early attempts were... not great. But I figured it out. Now I travel wherever I want. I’m due in Heart River for the big rodeo next week. Then to Bozeman. I have a whole schedule mapped out."
"And I’m guessing your mom doesn’t approve?"
The question catches me off guard. "My mom's waiting for me to 'come to my senses.'" I put air quotes around the phrase. "It's been two years. She's very patient."
He's quiet for a moment. "What about—"
"There was a guy." I cut him off before he can ask. "He agreed with her. So now there isn't a guy."
"His loss," he says quietly.
The lights flicker.
We both look up.
"That's not good," I say.
"No."
The lights flicker again, then die completely. The living room plunges into darkness, broken only by the glow of the fireplace.
"Generator should kick on," Jake says. But seconds pass, and nothing happens. He swears under his breath. "Ice must have gotten to it. Stay here."
Five minutes later, he's back, shaking snow from his hair.
"Good news and bad news," he says.
"Bad first."
