Five Summers Ago

ON VACATION, YOU can be anyone you want.

Like a good book or an incredible outfit, being on vacation transports you into another version of yourself.

On vacation, your hair changes. The water is different, maybe the shampoo. Maybe you don't bother to wash your hair at all, or brush it, because the salty ocean water curls it up in a way you love.

On vacation, you strike up conversations with strangers, and forget that there are any stakes. If it turns out impossibly awkward, who cares? You'll never see them again!

You're whoever you want to be. You can do whatever you want.

Okay, so maybe not whatever you want. Sometimes the weather forces you into a particular situation, such as the one I'm in now, and you have to find second-rate ways to entertain yourself as you wait out the rain.

If not for the storm, I would've chosen somewhere else for my last night in town, and not in a sticky-floored bar called only BAR, scouring the meager crowd for my target.

He's sitting at the corner of BAR's bar itself. A man about my age, twenty-five, sandy haired and tall with broad shoulders, though so hunched you might not notice either of these last two facts on first glance. His head is bent over his phone, a look of quiet concentration visible in his profile. His teeth worry at his full bottom lip as his finger slowly swipes across the screen.

The sandy-haired man sitting on the corner stool has a stillness that makes him stick out. Actually, everything about him screams that he doesn't belong here. He's dressed in a rumpled long-sleeve button-up and navy blue trousers. He's also suspiciously devoid of a tan, as well as any laughter, mirth, levity, etc.

Bingo. I push a fistful of blond waves out of my face and set off toward him. As I approach, his eyes stay fixed on his phone, his finger slowly dragging whatever he's reading up the screen. I catch the bolded words CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE.

He's fully reading a book at a bar.

I swing my hip into the bar and slide my elbow over it as I face him. "Hey, tiger."

His hazel eyes slowly lift to my face, blink. "Hi?"

"Do you come here often?"

He studies me for a minute, visibly weighing potential replies.

"No," he says finally. "I don't live here."

"Then what brings you to town?"

"A friend." His eyes drop to his phone.

"Lives here?" I guess.

"Dragged me," he corrects. "For vacation."

I roll my eyes. "No way! Away from your cat? With no good excuse except for enjoyment and merrymaking? Are you sure this person can really be called a friend?"

"Less sure every second," he says without looking up.

He's not giving me much to work with, but I'm not giving up.

"So," I forge ahead. "What's this friend like? Hot? Smart? Loaded?"

"Short," he says, still reading. "Loud. Never shuts up. Spills on every single article of clothing either of us wears, has horrible romantic taste, sobs through those commercials for community college-the ones where the single mom is staying up late at her computer and then, when she falls asleep, her kid drapes a blanket over her shoulders and smiles because he's so proud of her? What else? Oh, she's obsessed with shitty dive bars that smell like salmonella. I'm afraid to even drink the bottled beer here-have you seen the Yelp reviews for this place?"

"Are you kidding right now?" I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

"Well," he says, "salmonella doesn't have a smell, but yes, Poppy, you are short."

"Alex!" I swat his bicep, breaking character. "I'm trying to help you!"