Page 5 of Dating Goals
“That’s not very Zen of you, Master Griffin,” Owen says in a mock-serious tone. “Remember, hatred leads to the dark side.”
“That’sStar Wars!” I protest.
“Should we get you one of those little desktop calendars?” Sawyer wipes tears from his eyes. “Daily Griffin-spirations?”
“With pictures of fluffy kittens hanging from tree branches?” Hendrix adds. “Hang in there…probably.”
“I bet he has one of those meditation apps,” Tolliver says. “The ones that play rainforest sounds while someone whispers about finding your inner peace.”
I give him a hard stare. “For your information, I prefer ocean sounds.”
The guys lose it completely. Owen actually doubles over, clutching his stomach.
“I’m leaving now,” I announce, shouldering my bag.
“Wait, wait,” Sawyer cries, barely able to speak without laughing. I need you to explain how life is like a box of chocolates.”
“You never know what you’re gonna get!” the rest of the guys all chorus after me as I head for the door.
“Keep calm and Griffin on!” Beckett calls out.
Owen adds, “When you get home, don’t forget to meditate and align your chakras.”
“I’m about to alignyourchakras,” I snap.
This sets them off again, and I leave to a chorus of “Namaste!” and “May the Force be with you!” following me out the door.
2
ANIKA
Crunching along the path, the fall colors alight, my lungs fill with the clean mountain air.
And my bladder fills with dread.
The morning sun peeks through the evergreens as I power up the loop trail. This is my sanctuary. No beer taps to fix, no invoices to process. Just me and The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven” pumping through my vintage Walkman headphones.
The trail curves around a rocky outcrop, and I pick up my pace, belting along with the song at the top of my lungs. A red squirrel darts across the path, giving me the side-eye. “Ja, ja, I see you too,kleiner freund.”
I’ve named him Herbert. He’s usually here at this time—probably judging my singing.
The trail opens to a clearing where the village of Grächen spreads out below, morning mist still clinging to the rooftops. S’Holzfass (the bar I inherited from my father last year) is just a tiny dot from up here.
Strange how something so small can feel like such a weight sometimes. Of course, it’s not without its charm, with its creaky floorboards and regulars who think they’re comedians.
I stretch my arms overhead, feeling my muscles warm despite the cool air. The trail winds ahead through golden larches, their needles creating a soft carpet underfoot.
I could stay in this zone forever. Except for the urgent need to pee.
At first, I tell myself I can make it all the way home. If I up my pace a bit, I’ll be at my own place. Only a few more kilometers to S’Holzfass. My 80s playlist will get my blood pumping enough to get me there without incident, and then it’s another day of pouring pints and dodging bad pickup lines.
My father used to say these morning hikes kept him sane during tourist season. Now I understand why. Running a pub isn’t just serving drinks. It’s playing therapist, bouncer, and sometimes babysitter to grown men who can’t handle their alcohol.
On my mental list: everything. But the top few are keeping the lights on, reordering house beer, and making sure the accounts don’t bounce.
Herbert scampers back across my path with a pine cone in his mouth. “Show-off,” I mutter, adjusting my headphones.
The mountainside is painted in shades of amber and gold.
