Page 8 of All Your Dreams

“Let’s go with adventure,” I say, because explaining myself further feels too complicated after a long day of driving.

“Come inside. I’ll show you to your room.”

The interior of the house is as inviting as the outside, with floral wallpaper and the faint scent of freshly baked goods. I follow Maude up the stairs as she tells me about the inn, the town and the local spots I should check out before leaving tomorrow. Her voice fills the space easily and I find myself nodding along, grateful for the one-sided small talk.

“I usually ask my guests what brings them here,” she says as we reach the upstairs hallway. “Vacation, family, just passing through…everyone has a reason.”

It would be easy to say I’m traveling and checking destinations off a bucket list. But something about her makes me want to be honest…or as honest as I can manage without spilling the entire sordid truth.

“I’m recently separated,” I say with a small shrug, aiming for casual. “Figured a cross-country road trip was the right way to deal with my conflicted emotions.” Understatement of the year.

Maude stops in front of a door and turns to face me. “Well, I’d say you’re doing wonderfully.”

“Let’s hope so,” I mutter.

She studies me, then nods as though she’s reached some conclusion. “You know,” she says, and unlocks the door before stepping aside to let me in, “my grandson Marshall is in town for a few weeks.” Of course he is. I should’ve seen this coming.

“He’s going through a divorce too,” she continues, as if that alone makes us compatible.

I set my bag down near the bed, preparing for a polite refusal. “That’s nice, but I’m here for one night⁠—”

“It’s only coffee. No expectations. Just two people who might understand each other a little better than most,” she insists.

I hesitate, because this is exactly the kind of situation I always find myself in. The kind where saying no feels unnecessarily rude and where agreeing seems easier than explaining I’d rather be left alone. Still, a part of me wonders if she’s right. Maybe a distraction wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“Only coffee?” I repeat, knowing well I don’t even drink coffee.

Maude’s smile widens and she nods. “You’re continuing your travels anyway, so what can one coffee hurt?”

I exhale slowly, about to make a decision I’ll most likely regret later. “Tell him to meet me at the diner I passed on my way here tomorrow morning.”

At least it’s public and I can leave whenever I want. I don’t know Maude or her grandson, and the last thing I should be doing right now is agreeing to anything that even remotely resembles a date. But then again, I shouldn’t have spent so much time saying yes to all the wrong things in my failed marriage either.

“How does nine sound?”

“Wonderful.”

It should be noted that being a chronic people pleaser totally sucks. It makes me do stupid things like agreeing to a coffee date with my B&B owner’s grandson. Maude reassured me we’d have a lot in common, but so far, the only thing connecting us is our current relationship statuses, and even that feels like a stretch.

Marshall sits ramrod straight across from me, his shoulders stiff as if bracing for impact. He occasionally sips his drink while staring blankly into nothingness. His dark brown eyes wander around the diner every once in a while, but they never settle on anything for long, including my face. I can’t tell if he’s nervous, bored or simply uninterested, but I have a strong suspicion the feeling is mutual.

“So, Marshall,” I start, trying to fill the silence before it becomes unbearable, “what do you usually do for fun?”

“Fun?” he repeats, blinking at me as if it’s the first he’s heard of it.

“You know, things you enjoy doing in your free time.”

“I don’t know,” he replies, his voice monotone, matching the current situation. “I work. I help my grandma. I sleep. That’s all.”

I offer a polite smile. “That sounds…productive.”

No answer. Okay then. Great chat, buddy. I fiddle with the white ceramic cup, trying to muster any interest in the man sitting across from me, but it’s impossible. He’s nice enough, I guess, but I can’t shake the nagging feeling that he wouldn’t be here unless his grandma asked him to. There are no sparks or anything besides space between us.

“So, do you have any hobbies?” he asks after a moment, his tone flat, his gaze still not quite meeting mine. He should learn the basics of dating etiquette, but I won’t be the one to teach him. Thank God for small mercies.

“I like to paint and take care of my plants,” I answer.

To be honest, the paints are where I stored them in my childhood bedroom closet months ago, colors sealed in their tubes, waiting for a version of me that hasn’t shown up in years. I also had to leave all but two of my plants behind in my parents’ care. But he doesn’t need to know all the boring details.