Page 3 of Returning the Runner

Despite myself, I almost smiled. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“You should try it sometime. If you’re ever in Forestville.” He said it easily, like an open door he wasn’t going to push me through, and something in my chest tightened.

“You stayed.” I hadn’t meant it as a question, but it came out like one.

“I stayed.” No defensiveness. No apology. Just a fact, steady as the man himself. “Built the brewery about twelve years ago and added a taproom in the spring. Started with a homebrew setup in my garage and a certificate from Siebel, and now we’ve got a taproom and distribution across three counties.” He shrugged, but I could see the pride underneath. “It’s a good life.”

“Sounds like it.”

“What about you? Where’d you end up?”

“LA.”

“Doing what?”

“Air traffic control.”

Porter blinked. Then he laughed, a real one, surprised and warm. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not.”

“Hanson Swaim directs planes for a living.”

“At LAX.”

“LAX.” He shook his head slowly, still grinning. “That’s… I mean, that explains a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Like this.” He gestured vaguely at me, my posture, my face, all of it. “You look like you haven’t exhaled since 2003.”

It landed closer to the bone than he probably intended. Or maybe exactly as close as he intended—with Porter, it was hard to tell. I took another sip of my drink and let the gin burn a clean line down my throat. “It’s a demanding job.”

“I bet.”

A pause settled between us. The ship’s horn sounded—deep, resonant, vibrating through the deck—and a cheer rose from the crowd. We were pulling away from port. I watched the lights of Long Beach slide sideways behind Porter’s head.

No turning back now.

“I have to ask,” Porter said, and his voice had changed. It was still warm, but with a careful edge. “Are you out? Or is this”—he gestured at the ship around us—“a vacation from real life?”

It was a fair question. It was more than fair, given our history. But it still hit me like a slap. “I’m out. Have been for a few years.”

“A few years.”

“Yeah.”

He nodded slowly. I watched him do the math—twenty-five years since Forestville, out for only a few of them. I watched him decide not to say what he was thinking, which was unlike Porter and told me more about how he was feeling than anything he could have said. “Good,” he said finally. “That’s good, Hanson.”

“Thanks.” The word came out flatter than I had intended. I pressed my thumb into my opposite palm under the table where he couldn’t see.

“And you’re here alone? No boyfriend tucked away in a cabin somewhere?”

“No. Solo. You?”

“Solo.” Porter smiled, and this time it was self-deprecating in a way that made my ribs ache. “Forty-six and single on a cruise. Figured I’d give the universe one more shot before I get a golden retriever and call it a life.”

“You’d be a good dog owner.”