What she sees is what she gets.
“What are you thinking about in that pretty head of yours?”
She blinks, caught off guard by my question. For a moment, I think she might deflect with another joke, but something shifts in her expression.
“I’m thinking that you’re not what I expected,” she admits, tucking her hair behind her ear. The gesture seems unconscious, vulnerable in a way she doesn’t realize.
“Is that good or bad?” I ask, suddenly feeling like her answer matters more than it probably should.
She hesitates, her eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes my chest tighten. “I’m still deciding.”
“That’s fair,” I say, matching her honesty with my own. “For what it’s worth, you’re not exactly what I expected either.”
“Let me guess, you thought all bartenders were tattooed hipsters who only drink craft IPAs and judge people’s bourbon choices?”
I laugh. “No, but now I’m wondering if I should be concerned about my bourbon choices.”
“Don’t worry,” she says with a small smile. “Your beer selection already told me everything I need to know.”
“Oh good. As long as you get me now.”
We continue walking, our pace slowing as if by mutual agreement. Neither of us seems in a hurry to end whatever this is between us.
“So, what about you?” I ask, turning the conversation on her.
“What about me?”
“What does Sutton, the woman whose last name I still don’t know, like to do with her time when she’s not working the bar?”
The corner of her mouth turns up before she answers, “Price.”
“Price?” I repeat, not following.
“That’s my last name. Sutton Price. And in my free time I like to volunteer and I like to thrift.”
“Thrift? What is thrift?”
She glances at me. “Thrifting…as in shopping at thrift stores.”
“Oh. And that’s like…a whole thing that people do?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I mean…yeah.” She seems a little self-conscious about it, which makes me want to know more. “I like finding things other people have discarded. Things with history.”
“That’s cool,” I say, and I mean it. “What kind of stuff do you look for?”
She hesitates, then says, “Mostly…cups. Teacups, mugs. Ones that are chipped or cracked.”
“Broken things,” I observe.
Her eyes meet mine, surprised. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Why?”
She takes a deep breath, like she’s deciding how much to tell me. “Because people toss them aside like…like they aren’t pretty anymore, but they are. And they still work. They still serve their purpose, even if they’re not perfect.” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” I tell her. “Not at all. It means something to you, and I think that’s…I don’t know. Remarkable.”
We walk a little farther in silence, and I find myself wanting to know everything about Sutton Price. Every detail, every story, every reason behind the walls she has surrounding her.
