Page 53 of Once Upon a Fall

The hand holding the roller brush drops by her side. “Originally?”

“I had it legally changed.”

“So, what was your first name?”

“Milton,” I tell her.

“You’re lying.”

“I wish I were.”

She covers her mouth like she’s just finished one of her signature ramblings, but then she laughs.

“Milton?” she repeats, out of breath. “You’ve been walking around this whole time with that information?”

“I’m sure you can understand why I changed it.”

“I don’t, actually.” She swipes a finger under her eye. “I think I might want to call you Milton.”

“And if you do, I’ll call you Rosaline.”

“Right,” she says. “Touché.”

Her smile softens, but she doesn’t look away. Neither do I.

This has been happening since the night I slept in her room. We look at each other longer than necessary, and then one of us eventually remembers to stop.

It’s Rosie, this time. She takes a breath and then goes back to painting.

The town is quiet, Main Street is totally empty, and the only thing open at nine p.m. is the Maple Bar and Grill, so I head there.

Rosie hit a wall an hour ago after we’d finished painting and tried to get me to watch Tangled with her because she now feels it’s her job to educate me on Disney fairy tales, since my lack of having seen any is appalling to her.

Five minutes into the movie, and she was out cold. Head lolling to the side, mouth wide open. This time she actually was snoring.

So, I helped her to her room, where she fell onto the bed and rolled to the center of the mattress, still in her overalls and shoes. I took off her shoes and made sure she was under the covers before turning off the light and leaving her there.

Rosie will probably be annoyed that I didn’t fully wake her up so she could get back to work, but I’ve watched her run herself ragged over the last few weeks, and I know she needs the rest.

For one stupid second, I looked at the empty space beside her and thought about how easy it would be to climb in.

Which is exactly why I left the room and went to find something to eat.

“The dining room is closed,” a woman with a helmet of blonde hair that adds at least four inches to her height says when I walk inside, warm air carrying the smell of grilled meat and fried food toward me as the bells above the door jingle. “But the bar is open.”

She points toward the empty bar, where a man in his sixties sits behind it, watching football highlights on a screen mounted on the far wall. His gray hair looks like it could use a brush.

“Hello, there,” the man says as he stands up from his stool when I approach. He probably wasn’t expecting anyone else to come in tonight.

“Hello,” I say back. “Is the kitchen still open?”

He nods once. “Just for fries and burgers, though.”

“Great.” I take a seat on one of the bar stools. “I’ll take an order of each. And a Coke.”

I made stir-fry again tonight, but for some reason it wasn’t enough to fill me. I was going to have leftovers, but then realized I was craving something else.

“Do you want a maple one?”