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“What do I owe you so far?”
“Four bucks.”
“For soda water?”
“Heat and lights, my man.”
“Still seems like a lot for soda water.”
“If you were the designated driver for your party, you’d get a discount.”
“What if I’mmydesignated driver?”
“Doesn’t qualify.”
“What if I have a friend on the way?”
“You need at least three to be a party.”
“Seems random.”
“Not at all. Three’s a party. Two’s a date.”
“This will definitelynotbe a date.”
“That’s what they all say. Right after they swipe right.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Means soda water is four bucks.”
“And how much is soda water if I qualify for the designated driver discount—”
“Three-fifty.”
“You know what? You win.” Kinnick threw up his hands. “I’ll pay the two quarters.” The bartender swept away his glass and returned it full, Kinnick taking this opportunity to look around the bar, an old newspaper haunt. It had taken him years to believe that the world was not a series of rooms like this, crowded with people and their cultural noise, their agendas and desires. To remember that the world was the world, and we merely passed through it: twenty-some thousand sunrises, each one with the power to renew us.
It was surreal, being back here again. Everything felt a little bit different, but not as different as he might’ve expected, after so long in the wilderness. The flat-screen TVs were maybe a little flatter. There were QR codes on coasters instead of menus. Granted, it had only been a few years, and he’d only been hiding sixty-some miles away, and hehadbeen in a few bars in Springdale and other small towns since then, and hehadseen a little bit of television at Brian and Joanie’s house, but the changes he noted had a strange quality to them. Not only did they seem broadly unimpressive, but, in some cases, they seemed like steps backward. Like, not only were there no flying cars, there seemed to be more big pickups and SUVs than ever.
At home right now, the crickets would be singing their first flat notes, that lone creek bullfrog calling him out (Kinnick! Kinnick!) as the Milky Way began its smear across the night sky. And here he was, sitting on a barstool out of his past, paying four bucks for soda water.
Finally, after almost an hour, Lucy landed with a sigh and thethunkof a giant purse, and a jailer’s jangly key ring. “You know, Kinnick, ifyou had a phone, it’d be a lot easier to text and tell you that I changed my mind about helping you.”
“Reason number sixty-eight to not have a phone.”
The bartender came over and she ordered a dry gin martini. “You want one?”
He held up his glass for a third soda water, and the guy left to make their drinks. Rhys turned to her. “So, your kids—”
“Anna and Kel.”
“Right. How old—”
“Anna’s twenty-two, a senior at the University of Washington. Kel’s nineteen.”
“Unbelievable. And is Kel in school, too?”
She let out a breath as the bartender set their drinks in front of them. When he was gone, Lucy took a sip, set her glass back on the bar, and turned to him. “I can’t small talk like this, Rhys.”