Page 56 of Every Beautiful Mile

I pick at my cuticles as I talk.

“No way, I’m not leaving this place until tomorrow,” Marin flops onto her bed already in her sleep shirt before her head pops up, eyebrows raised. “And that’s a pretty big coincidence we end up in some random town where a guy you’ve been emailing lives.”

She’s annoyingly perceptive.

“Yeah. well, I just saw it was on the way…”

If I can’t explain it to her, I’ll never be able to explain it to him.

“I’m not leaving, either,” Finn says, not looking away from his TV while he sits in bed propped up against the headboard.

One of my fingers starts to bleed from my aggressive picking.

“What? What about food?”

I can’t do this alone!

“There’s a pizza place that delivers here,” Marin says, holding up a menu. “Pizza. De-liv-er-y. Doesn’t that sound amazing? It’s been over a month!”

As if she’s been without running water and electricity.

I shake my head. “If I don’t meet him today, I won’t meet him. Plus, my arteries want healthy food.”

“Fine, we’ll get pizza, and you can go eat something your arteries like.”

Finn clicks the remote.

“Ugh! Okay. It’s just down the street.” Neither of them look at me. “And I’ll have my phone. And don’t open the door for anyone.”

“What about the guy that brings the pizza, Penelope?” Marin mocks.

“Text me if you need me. I mean it. And don’t leave the rooms.”

I zip my wedding band along the chain around my neck and wait for them to change their minds.

They don’t.

Without a plan, I leave my kids and walk to meet a man who doesn’t know I’m here.

Twenty-three

I end up in the worst seat in the entire restaurant of Mainely Local.

It’s slammed. Every table is full and there’s a line out the door.

When I asked the hostess if Ethan was in, she pointed silently toward the bar as she held a phone to her ear, taking down a reservation.

I’m sitting between an exposed brick wall that’s rubbing me like a pumice stone and a woman that smells like my dead grandma.

The bartender has been at the other end of the bar the minutes I’ve been there, and all my surveys of the room haven’t given me anyone that looks like Ethan did in the magazine.

My current plan is to just lay it all on the line when I see him. Something like, “Hey! I’m not crazy, but we’ve been emailing. Surprise! I’m here to take that kitchen tour and learn all your secrets.”

I wave my hand again to get the bartender’s attention, to no avail. Still.

The man is struggling to keep up. Several people at the bar have empty glasses, and the drink printer, no doubt orders from the waitstaff, is spitting out so many orders the tickets are falling on the floor.

“Moosehead IPA!” someone calls.

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