Page 131 of Every Beautiful Mile

Me: Hi.

His response is an instant, Hi. and I can’t help but wonder if he’s checking his phone the same way I check mine.

Me: Beets are in season.

Ethan: I’m not drinking that cocktail.

I laugh.

I miss you.

Delete.

Me: What are you doing right now?

He sends a picture of his coffee mug sitting on the ledge around his porch, the trees in the background blazing with every fiery color of fall around the same river I stare at every morning in my living room.

My heart sputters. I can feel it, cool and crisp, probably smelling like a campfire and evergreens. I snap a picture of my mug with the clear blue sky and bright green palm trees in the background and send it in response.

We’re parallel lines, living the same life, doing the same things, so many miles away we’ll never intersect.

Me: I bought a French press. Remember when you taught me to use one?

Ethan: Barely.

I roll my eyes.

Me: You’re kind of a dick.

Ethan: I’ve heard those dicks just fly out of the woodwork sometimes.

I grin like an idiot at the reference.

He doesn’t send another message. Much to my dismay, neither do I.

Fifty-one

November comes in like a whirlwind.

Between Marin taking a part-time job washing hair at a local salon, Finn’s busy practice schedule, and my lousy attempt at balancing working at my dad’s bar and consulting jobs, the dinners we sit down together that had been so regular after summer now feel like a rare treasure.

“We should make you your own hashtag so then when bartenders take photos during the training, they can use the tag.”

I have no idea what this means, but I nod absently as I scoop salad into bowls.

“Maybe.” I hum, suddenly extremely thankful she’s the one who manages my social media account.

“There’s a girl I’m thinking of asking out,” Finn says as he twirls spaghetti onto a fork.

My eyes burn instantly. Not because he’s growing up, those tears had been shed long ago, but because the simple statement shows how far we’ve come together.

“Really? Anyone I know?” I try to say it casually like this is no big deal, but I can’t hide my ridiculous smile or the too-excited tone of my voice.

“Catie Johnson, I think you might know her dad.” He eyes me. “And don’t be weird. Your smile is creepy.”

I laugh. “I went to school with her dad, Mike. He’s friends with Gabe, actually. Good guy.”

“Catie Johnson?!” Marin’s eyes widen. “Finny, way to go. She’s on the volleyball team and volunteers for beach clean-ups. She’s basically the opposite of She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

---