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“As close as you’ll get to Ireland.”

“Is that your favorite place to travel?” Brooklyn asks.

“I don’t know if that’s how I’d explain it,” I reply. “Visiting Ireland never feels like traveling.”

“How so?”

“It’s more like going home.”

“In your DNA,” she says.

“I guess so. I keep thinking I’ll spend a year there one day and write my epic novel.”

“Why don’t you?”

Good question. “Oh, I don’t know.” Sure, I do. As Ali would say, I’m chicken shit.

“I get it. It sounds terrific until you have to pick up your life and jump across an ocean.”

“Something like that,” I agree.

“I guess that’s my problem. Not jumping across an ocean, changing my career again.”

“Still thinking about broadcast journalism?”

“More like people keep pushing me in that direction.”

“You know, if you don’t like it, you can always move on.”

“Kind of like if Ireland stops feeling like home, you can always catch a flight back here?” Brooklyn asks.

“Touché.”

“I understand,” Brooklyn says. “Making a jump isn’t easy.”

For a writer, I’m not always the best at reading between the lines. It would require an unprecedented level of density to miss the underlying implications of Brooklyn’s statement. Or maybe I would like to believe there is some thinly veiled purpose to her observation. I try to tear my gaze away from hers. It’s pointless. A weight descends on my chest—the weight of the truth. I can run from Brooklyn, avoid seeing her, rationalize and justify every interaction we have. I can’t hide from my truth, no matter how much I wish I could. “No,” I agree. “It isn’t.” I’m grateful when our waitress approaches.

“Any dessert?” she inquires.

“I never turn down anything sweet,” Brooklyn says without looking away from me.

My mouth goes dry. “I guess we’re having dessert,” I tell our waitress.

“I’ll get you a menu,” the waitress tells us. I’m positive I hear her giggle when she walks away.

“Are you okay?” Brooklyn asks. “You look a little flushed.”

She’s enjoying this. I raise my glass. “It’s the beer.” She knows I’m lying. She lets me off the hook. God, help me. I don’t know how much resolve I have left. I hope I can keep my cool through dessert, then I can run for cover. For now, I’ll concentrate on my beer.

***

Ali often says I’m a pushover. I can be. I’m also terrible at pretending. Most people would find that illogical. How can a person who creates fictional narratives be pitifully inept at pretense? They aren’t the same skill. And if I’m honest, I think one of the reasons I love writing is the ability to avoid my reality. Creating magical realms where the most implausible adventures happen, even love, is a wonderful form of escapism. Unfortunately, my ineptitude at escaping real life is currently nipping at my heels. There is no rule, written or unwritten, that dictates inviting someone into your home for a night cap. Unless the song,Baby It’s ColdOutside,is your template. If I were romancing Brooklyn, I might add that song to the evening’s playlist. I’m not romancing Brooklyn. Minus the music, the scene in my living room might pass as the lesbian version of a Hallmark movie. I started the fireplace, poured whiskey into two glasses, and lit my Christmas tree. I may need to pour myself more booze if one of us doesn’t start a conversation soon. Brooklyn is sipping her whiskey and looking at the fire. I’m curious where her thoughts have traveled.

“You’re a romantic,” she says.

“Is that what you think?”

“You are.” She looks at me and smiles. “You believe in true love.”