But that wasn’t the case here. I had the big picture, and Mitch had all the puzzle pieces for me. I just needed to put them together.

“I don’t mind,” I said. “It’ll be fun.”

* * *

  • • •

And it was fun, for a little while.

When I got home that night I downloaded Mitch’s spreadsheet to my laptop, and created a folder with all the other paperwork he’d sent. I logged on to the Faire’s business email account and sent out reminders to the acts that hadn’t confirmed. Easy. A warm thrill went through me when I saw that Dueling Kilts had already confirmed for the summer. Dex. I couldn’t wait to see him again, and that time was coming up so soon now.

Over the next couple weeks the last confirmations trickled in, and we had a full complement of acts for the summer. A few signed contracts were still outstanding, but most of them had come via email, so I wasn’t too concerned yet. Plenty of time.

When I left work one Friday in early June, there were two notifications on my phone. The first was a text from Mitch, saying that the last two contracts had been mailed to him, and to meet him at Jackson’s for happy hour and he’d pass them along. It sounded like a thinly veiled request for a drinking buddy, but what the hell. I didn’t have any plans.

The second notification was a short message from Dex, which I waited to read until I got to the bar. I wanted to savor it with my Friday night glass of wine while I waited for Mitch to show up.

To: Stacey Lindholm

From: Dex MacLean

Date: June 5, 4:37 p.m.

Subject: Weekend

A rare weekend off! This hardly ever happens. And what am I doing? Sitting here in a bar on my own. The other guys are off doing their own thing, and I couldn’t be bothered tonight. All I can think about is you. Which feels . . . strange, don’t you think? It’s been months since I’ve seen you, and I’m not even sure that you . . .

I’m not going to finish that thought. But I’m not going to delete it either. I’m just going to hit Send. July will be here before we know it.

That all sounded so vague, and almost ominous. I sipped my rosé and took a look around Jackson’s. No Mitch yet. I suppressed a sigh and ordered some mozzarella sticks. I never wanted to hear him complain about women taking too long to get ready for anything. I switched from email to text and tapped out a message to Dex.

What a coincidence. I’m alone at a bar myself right now. What do you like to drink when you’re drinking alone?

He wrote back right away. I don’t know if I like the thought of you drinking alone. I’m about halfway through a pint of Guinness right now. You?

I shuddered. Ugh. That stuff is too thick. You don’t drink it, you chew it. No, thank you.

Ha, he replied, dark beer is definitely not something you chug. But it’s my thing. Every new town, as soon as I check into the hotel, I head for the nearest bar and order the darkest beer they have. Usually it’s a Guinness and that’s fine, but sometimes I get surprised by a craft stout. Not so much refreshing as comforting. Really nice after a long drive. I sip it really slowly and center my brain, focusing on the shows ahead.

No shows this weekend, I texted back. What are you focusing on now?

The future.

I frowned. That was a vague reply. But before I could ask for clarification he changed the subject. But you didn’t answer my question. What are you drinking there, alone?

My mozzarella sticks arrived, and I took another sip of wine. Still no Mitch. Rosé, I responded. That’s *my* thing, I guess. Part of the whole basic white girl aesthetic that I embrace. Can’t help it. I’m a blonde. I love mimosas, Pumpkin Spice Lattes, and my rose-gold iPhone. But I have some standards: no UGG boots and I’m terrible at yoga.

His answer came quickly. There are a lot of words I’d use to describe you. Basic isn’t one of them.

“Hey, there you are.”

I started at the sound of Mitch’s voice and almost dropped my phone onto the bar. “Here I am,” I said back, a little irritated. “Hiding from you right here at the bar ten feet from the front door.”

“Funny.” Mitch took one of my mozzarella sticks and ordered a beer before sliding a folder with the contracts in my direction. “Who you texting? Big date tonight?”

I snorted as I tucked the folder and my phone into my bag. “Hardly. The hottest date I’ve had lately is the battery-powered one I have waiting for me at home.” Of all my friends, Mitch would appreciate a vibrator joke the most.

I was right. He laughed out loud and slapped the bar with the flat of his hand. “Nice!”

His appreciation of the joke made me smile. Same old Mitch. He was another one who’d never left town, just like me. But unlike me, I wasn’t sure that he’d ever tried. I watched him polish off the other half of the purloined mozzarella stick and take a swig of beer before I spoke again. “Mitch,” I asked, “do you ever wish you’d left home?” I wasn’t sure where this change in subject had come from, but texting with Dex always made me feel a little wistful. A little lonely. A little stuck. Was I the only townie who regretted staying behind?

His expression turned thoughtful, an odd look for him. “Not really,” he finally said. “I never really thought about it, if you want to know the truth. I like it here, my family’s here, and I’ve got a pretty good thing going. Other people are destined for bigger things in bigger cities. But not me. Besides . . .” He shrugged. “If I weren’t here, who’d get the baseball team to State? Simon?”

I scoffed and reached for my wineglass. “Yeah, that would be a no.”

“Exactly. I’m needed here.” His tone was that of a world-weary general who couldn’t desert his troops. He peered at me over his pint glass. “I always thought you’d get out of here though.”

“You did?” I had no idea that Mitch had ever given me more than a trivial amount of thought.

“Yeah. I remember you in school. You were pretty driven.” His lips curved up in a nostalgic smile. “Cute too.”

Hello. “Now you tell me!” I put my glass down. I couldn’t believe this. “I had the biggest crush on you in high school, you know. Well, I’m sure you do know. Most girls did, right? You were the football hero.”

Mitch tried to look modest, but he failed miserably. Just like when we were kids, he was born to preen. “Well, someone had to take over for Sean Graham once he graduated. I still can’t believe that Simon wasn’t an athlete like his brother, you know? What a waste.”

“Simon ran track,” I protested.

Mitch scoffed. “Simon read books. Nerd.”

I rolled my eyes with a smile. “Whatever.”

He rolled his eyes back. “I almost asked you out a couple times senior year, you know.”

“What?” My jaw sagged. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I was way younger than you!”

“Well, yeah. That’s one reason why I didn’t. But you’d also just made varsity and wore that cute little cheerleading skirt on game days, so I was conflicted. I mean, sure, you were just a sophomore, but your legs, man . . .” He gave a wolf whistle that made me tingle with embarrassed pride and brought our bartender over so we could order another round.

“I can’t believe you’re just telling me this now,” I grumbled as I crunched down on another mozzarella stick. “High school would have been a lot more fun.”

“Tell me about it.” Mitch’s sigh was belabored as he took my last mozzarella stick. “We would have absolutely rocked prom.”

I stole an appraising glance at him as we got our second round of drinks, and I reached deep inside for the high school girl that I knew still lived inside me. That girl who would have shanked someone for five seconds of attention from Mitch Malone. But she lay dormant now, and any wild crush on Mitch had been replaced with affection. Once I’d gotten to know him, the real Mitch that lay beneath the gorgeous exterior, he’d become more like a big brother, a good friend, and wasn’t that better in the long run anyway?

When it was time to go and we settled our tabs, it struck me that the way I felt about Mitch was a lot like how I felt about Dex. While I certainly appreciated the outer package and had nothing to complain about there, it was that inner layer, the one he’d been showing me in his emails and texts, that really interested me. These past summers, it had been that Hemsworth-like body and nothing else. But I’d learned so much about him over the last few months that I realized it was his words I was attracted to now, and who he was inside. His Hemsworthiness didn’t matter to me anymore.

That was . . . That was a revelation. He was states away—I actually wasn’t sure what state he was in at the moment—but I needed to let him know. But not via text. Not from a bar. I had to get to my laptop. I couldn’t tap all this out on my phone.

Eleven

To: Dex MacLean

From: Stacey Lindholm

Date: June 5, 9:47 p.m.