Page 98 of Every Beautiful Mile

And when I realize I’m hungry, I decide to take myself out on a date.

I walk into the first place I come to, with music playing from inside and the smells of a hot grill. I open the large doors without even looking at the name or menu that’s posted outside. I simply don’t care because I don’t have to.

I’m alone but alive.

A hostess smiles at me from behind a podium. Her dark hair hangs in two braids and there's a bright pink tint on her lips.

“Just one?” she asks, grabbing a menu.

“Umm, yeah. I can sit at the bar...”

I look and see there isn’t a single available stool except one against the wall—not doing that again.

“Oh, God. That looks packed, and I’m so hungry I might die. So yes, a table for one is fine.”

I smile at her and follow as she walks to a table at the edge of the big room.

I take in the space. The décor is nautical, reminding me of the Crow’s Nest a little, in a New England way. Colorful buoys and lobster traps hang from the walls as strings of lights twist around thick nautical lines of rope across the ceiling. Black and white pictures of puffins, whales, and local lighthouses line the walls.

It screams coastal Maine without being kitschy. A man and a woman sit on stools on a small stage with guitars, singing.

The place is packed. Between the music, the breeze blowing through open shutters, and the smell of seafood, the energy is a life force.

My waiter, a young guy with dark skin and baby dreadlocks, is at my table immediately.

“I’m Dion, and I’ll be taking care of you. Do you know what you’d like to drink? We have a full bar, and our specialty drinks are here.” He smiles and points to a section of the menu.

“Oh gosh, I’m a sucker for a specialty drink. I’ll have…”

I quickly skim the menu. Margarita, mojito, mule, all the usuals. Some with blueberries, because of course.

Then I stop. The Market Made is made with gin, lavender, lemons, and local Maine honey.

It’s a too-familiar combination.

“This is so crazy,” I say, looking up at Dion. “Who makes your specialty drinks? Like, who comes up with them? I swear to you, I just made this same one you have on here, and I have never ever seen the combination before.”

“Ahh. You got me there.” He overemphasizes a slow shrug. “I would say the bartender, but it might also be one of the managers. I can ask for you?”

“I hate to be a bother, but would you? I just can’t not know how someone else came up with that. And I’ll have one—a Market Made.”

I re-read the drink description to make sure I haven’t missed something.

What are the odds?

Dion returns a few minutes later and puts the drink in front of me. A foggy yellow liquid with small fizzy bubbles float up through the ice toward a swirling layer of purple and a sprig of lavender. The coincidence of it sends a chill up my spine.

“The bartender said this one came from the owner. He’s here tonight. I can ask him to come over if he has time?”

His head tilts to the side.

“I don’t want to be a pain, but if he has time, I’d love that. This is the weirdest thing that’s ever happened. Like I’m telling you, I wouldn’t be surprised if this is just a crazy dream.”

Dion pushes his lips together in a line, clearly not seeing—or caring—how crazy it is.

I give him an apologetic smile. “I haven’t looked at the menu, so I need more time.”

“Enjoy your drink. I’ll check back on you in a few minutes.” He tucks his notebook into his apron before walking away.

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