“They’re great sandals. You just don’t strike me as a sandal guy.”
“Caroline bought them.”
“So how does that work? Does she take you on shopping trips, or does she just order stuff for you?”
“A little of both.”
“Isn’t that weird?”
“Only when she walks into my room without knocking.”
“Yikes!” Lettie stops at a red Volkswagen Bug which appears to be more than a decade old. “This is me.”
“Liam, meet Lady.”
“As in Lady . . . Bug?” I ask.
“No way! You got it! No one gets my car’s name. I mean, they do eventually. But it took my mom at least six months.”
“It’s a great car,” I say, mostly meaning it. I’m pretty sure all six foot three of me will be cramped in the passenger seat, but Lettie’s worth a crick in the neck.
“I love it.” She fondly pats the roof “I’ll be devastated when it dies.”
“I can imagine,” I reply while mentally wondering where to find a mechanic to put a new engine in this vehicle when it inevitably breaks down. I really need to reign it in, too much dreaming about the future. But I just don’t see this thing with Lettie as short-term. And I don’t think this car will last very long.
Inside her car smells like a pine forest. “Woah, smells great in here.”
“Right? It’s the Frasier Fir air freshener. I always have a few extras in the glove compartment. You can take one if you want.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
“I think I will.” I open the glove compartment. She’s not kidding. There are about half a dozen air fresheners. No wonder her car smells like a Christmas tree farm. I take one and slip it into my back pocket. “Thanks. You know where to go?” I ask.
“Yeah, I know a good spot. I often walk by the river.”
“Me too. Fitz loves it.”
“You should have brought him. I like your dog.” And I’m off again, like Fitz chasing a rabbit, making future plans with Lettie, imagining long walks with her and Fitz—or maybe the three of us on the couch together, watching a movie.
“I considered bringing him but wasn’t sure how you’d feel. Maybe next time.”
Lettie stiffens. Her easy smile disappears.
“Yeah, maybe... ” She trails off. We park and cross over to the path along the river. I sense that something is off, but I don’t want to ask, not quite yet. I had planned on being brave and going right to the relationship talk, but my courage ebbs. I ask something else.
“How’s the writing going?”
Lettie gulps. “Good . . . actually really good.”
“What does really good look like?” She has an inscrutable expression.
“Hmm... I recently finished a manuscript, and I like it.”
“What’s the next step? When willIget to read it?”
She laughs. “You don’t want to read my silly romances?”
