Page 51 of Feels Like Home

“You show up to the restaurant, but he’s not waiting outside. You find him at the bar. Flirting with the bartender. You know her, because you know everyone who lives here, and you know for a fact that she hooks up with guys all the time, and you can’t be sure, but you think maybe what she’s writing on his napkin at that exact moment is her phone number.”

I sigh.

“Wow, that’s⁠—”

“Oh, I’m not done.” I hold up a finger at him. “He looks at you, like really looks at you, you know—here—” I motion in the general vicinity of my chest and mentally give Noble bonus points for not looking down. “And you see he’s trying to figure out how he’s going to get in there. He’s already two drinks in, and he doesn’t even bother to ask if you want anything. The bartender does that. And when she does, he pipes up with, ‘Separate checks, okay, babe?’ And even though you’d throat punch anyone who calls you ‘babe,’ you’re pretty sure he’s talking to the bartender, not to you.”

I walk out of the headband booth and into the main aisle.

“Then there are the guys who ask you out, but leave all the plans to you. Or the ones who make plans and don’t show up. Or the ones who do show up, say they had a great time, only to ghost you for three weeks—then send a ‘hey, you up?’ text.”

I shoot him a look. “I spend hours getting myself ready, and I know within five seconds of sitting down with any of these unemployed clowns that every one of them is exactly what I’m not looking for.”

I take a breath, finally, after five straight minutes of talking like I’ve never heard of punctuation.

“I don’t like the way any of that makes me feel, so—” a shrug— “I quit.”

“You quit.”

“Yep,” I say. “Quit. Hard pass. At this point, it’s not worth the hassle. I’d rather stay home alone with Netflix and Two-Step takeout than put myself through any of that.”

“Yeah, that’s . . . a lot.”

“Not what your dates are like?” I say, dryly.

“If you want to know the truth—” he draws in a breath— “I also quit.”

I laugh. “Yeah, right.” But when he looks at me, I realize, “Oh, you’re not kidding. I always thought . . .” but I don’t say what I thought because it’s none of my business. And frankly, I don’t want to know.

“Oh, I know what you thought,” he says ruefully, not letting me off the hook.

Assumptions have been made. And I feel chagrined.

“But come on, Noble. Can you blame me?” I say, pausing to pick up a jar of local maple syrup. “You do sort of have a reputation.”

He nods. “Yeah. I do. I earned that.” He goes still. Then, after a beat, he says, “Do you think people can change?”

I stop moving and set down the jar. I don’t know what to say because no, I really don’t think people can change. But at the same time—if that’s what he’s trying to do, I don’t want to stop him.

Is that what he’s trying to do?

After a beat of silence, he says, “Never mind. Stupid question.”

“It’s not stupid,” I say, voice quiet. “I just don’t know the answer. ‘When people show you who they are, believe ‘em,’ you know?”

“Ah. Words to live by.”

I move away from the syrup booth and walk toward another food stall.

“Well, I’m hoping people here believe a person can change,” he says.

There’s a tinge of sadness that makes its way into my heart. These bits and pieces he’s revealing are starting to form a more complete picture.

“There are two things I do know, though—any guy who is too stupid to realize you’re one in a million never deserved you in the first place.” He says it so easily, like it’s no big deal, and I have to remind myself that it’s just a line.

The kind of thing he would say to anyone.

You’re not that special, Hattie.