“I like to rate them,” I explain. “Not to keep track or anything. It’s not like I have a spreadsheet at home of all the beers I’ve tried. I just like to make a mental note of it.”
She nods. “That makes sense. So what did you give it?”
“Seven.” I finish off the small glass. “Maybe a seven and a half.”
Noelle takes another taste of hers, then screws up her face like she’s deep in thought. Once she swallows, she announces, “Seven. I like the coffee flavor, but the chocolate isn’t quite strong enough to counter it. And I’d like to see a little more depth. Maybe some extra spices, like nutmeg or cinnamon.”
I’m so pleased that she’s playing along, I say without thinking, “That’s it, you’re my beer tasting partner from now on.”
Her cheeks turn slightly pink. “Oh? What about your friends? Don’t they go beer tasting with you?”
“They do. Sometimes.” Suddenly fearing I’ve given Noelle the impression I’m a drunk who spends all his time drinking beer, I add quickly, “I don’t do this often. Go to breweries, I mean. Maybe once or twice a month, if that.”
“You must be busy with work,” she replies. “I looked up your website.” The pink in her cheeks deepens. “Not because I thought you were a creeper. I was just interested. It looks like you guys do a lot. Private security, consults, training…”
I select my next beer, this time a raspberry sour, before saying, “It keeps us busy. We’re a pretty small company, staffing-wise. The original team, that’s the one in New York, has seven people. The one in Texas has six. And mine has just five.”
Noelle scans her lineup of beers before selecting the IPA. “But you enjoy it?”
“I do. It gives me back a lot of the things I loved about serving. Being part of a team, staying active, helping people…”
“I guess that explains your daring rescue the other day,” she says. “Rushing in like a hero to save the day.”
“It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t thinking about being a hero?—”
“I know.” This time, Noelle’s the one to touch my hand. “I didn’t mean it like that. And I’m so thankful you did.”
But I don’t want her to be thankful. I don’t want Noelle to think she owes me anything.
Feeling slightly uncomfortable at her gratitude, I quickly change the subject. “So, you know about my job. What did you do before you moved to Williston?”
Noelle’s hand goes stiff.
Her gaze dips.
She gnaws on her lip before replying quietly, “I was a stage manager for a theater company in Portland.”
I get the same slithery feeling I had the other day when I saw Noelle go white as she looked at her phone. Like something bad is going on. Maybe even something dangerous.
But I don’t know her well enough to press her on it. So instead, I just say, “That sounds really interesting.”
Noelle lifts her gaze from the table to look at me. “It was. I’ve been working in theater since I was in high school, but always backstage. I never wanted to be an actor, with everyone staring at me. I wanted to be the person behind the scenes helping to make the magic happen.”
“So what did you do? As a stage manager?”
“Lots of things. Creating rehearsal schedules, making up prompt books, coordinating with the costume designer and prop master…” She trails off. A shadow flits across her gaze. “Anyway. There are lots of moving parts, and it can get hectic at times. But I loved it.”
I want to know why, if she loved it so much, she’s working in a diner in Williston instead of a theater in a major city. But I don’t feel right asking. Not yet.
“So did you go to college for that?” I ask. “Or is it more like an apprenticeship?”
“I got my degree in drama from Washington State. Then I worked for a little theater in Tacoma as the assistant stage manager. I did that for a year. After that, I spent the next four years as stage manager for a traveling theater company. Then I got the job in Portland, and I was there for five years.”
After a quick mental calculation, I say, “So you’re thirty-two?”
She nods. “Yeah. I just turned thirty-two in April.” A beat passes before she adds, “You said you’re thirty-nine, right?”
“Yup. I’ll be forty in November. Which seems crazy. I feel like I was just eighteen, getting ready to leave for Basic. And now…” I shrug. “Time’s a funny thing, isn’t it?”
