Page 21 of Skating and Fake Dating
When Charlene turned me down, I spiraled, messed up during playoffs, and am still struggling to find my footing.
The future I thought I had suddenly stopped right in front of my nose like I’d been running at a piece of sheet glass. Then it shattered into a million pieces.
After the detour, Bailey and I both fall silent the closer we get to Maple Falls. Hints of leaves changing from vibrant green to muted hues form a patchwork quilt along the hillsides with the approach of autumn. Further on, proud pines pierce the pale blue light of the northern sky. The crisp air rolls into my lungs and I find myself breathing easier than I have since leaving Nebraska.
A sign indicates a gas station at the next exit, so I get in the right lane. “I’m going to pull off for gas. Need anything?”
Bailey’s tired eyes brighten. “Only to go to the best flea market in the state.”
“I was thinking water, snacks, Combos.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Those salty little pretzel things filled with cheese? Those are an okay road trip snack, but red licorice is where it’s at.”
“For some reason, your junk food choice doesn’t surprise me. However, we’re not stopping at a flea market.”
Bringing her hands together under her chin, she bounces a little in her seat. “Pretty please. It’s so cool. There’s a whole vintage sporting goods section, a custom leather goods shop, and an entire wall filled with antique glass jars.”
“Why on earth would you want to look at a wall of glass jars?”
“For my hobby.”
“You collect glass jars?”
“To fill.”
“Like with hair doodads and stuff?”
“No, with maple syrup.”
“But it’s already in a container.”
“Not if you make it yourself.”
My brain must still be in the fog because I don’t quite understand. “Are you saying your favorite pastime is filling jars with maple syrup?”
“I make maple syrup. Sanitize the jars and then fill them. Can’t a gal have a hobby?” she asks as if affronted. It’s adorable.
“Of course. That’s super cool. Any others?”
She mumbles something that sounds like getting married. However, I must’ve misheard, having recently discussed my failed engagement proposal.
I pull off the highway and ask, “What was that?”
She repeats it in a low voice and I wonder if it’s something weird like collecting belly button lint or competitive duck racing.
Cupping my hand around my ear, I say, “I didn’t catch that.”
“Getting married.”
The words slowly filter toward me like a lazy Sunday afternoon. If I had a force field, I’d deploy it right now. “Your other hobby is to get married? So you do have a scrapbook filled with wedding ideas and designs for your dream house?” I ask, recalling her comment earlier.
She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “How’d you guess? But it’s just a little collection of the things I’d like at the ceremony, reception, and beyond.”
“Wouldn’t your future husband have a say?”
“Of course, they’re just ideas and, um, stuff.”
Following the signs, I turn for the gas station. “Does that really qualify as a hobby?”
