Page 96 of The Autumn We Fell in Love

And while my parents were good enough to put me up in their basement until I get back on my feet, they’re currently out of town for the weekend.

Which means that I have two choices. Either spend the night outside the airport or walk my ass into town.

I pick the latter, because the first? That’s not even a real choice, given how cold Deadwood gets early in the fall. Camping outside unprepared in late October in South Dakota would be uncomfortable at best, and dangerous at worst.

Lugging my rolling suitcase behind, I begin the trek into town. Once I get into the city proper, I might be able to snag one of the taxis that always seem to be available to drive home the folks who’ve had one too many, no matter how small the town.

Luckily it’s just a few miles.

Through the wind.

And the gathering darkness.

Wearing the coat that felt warm in New York but now feels as thin as paper.

I grit my teeth and haul my suitcase along the shoulder of the lonely highway. I keep switching which hand I have on the suitcase handle, shoving the other one in my pocket to warm up.

By the time the lights of downtown Deadwood are glaring in my eyes, I’m covered with damp sweat, face numb, and totally exhausted.

Not exactly the triumphant entrance I’d hoped to make.

But then, Deadwood isn’t exactly the booming mining town finding fresh life through tourism that all the billboards lining the highway say it is. Yeah, it had its heyday, and it’s got some interesting history, but Deadwood is still a tiny city in a big, mostly-empty state.

The smell of something fried finds me, and I draw a deep breath, savoring the aroma. My stomach growls.

It takes me exactly zero seconds to decide to the follow that smell to its source.

Trying to blink the weariness from my eyes, I track the mouth-watering smell into The Bison, an apparently popular bar, given the noise pouring from it. It’s not the establishment I would’ve chosen to frequent — too many people, which could lead to too many questions — but I’m hungry and tired and demoralized.

I need a win.

I need some fried food.

Plunking myself down at one end of the bar, scooting my suitcase close to my stool, I scan the menu and order the cheese curds and a beer. I keep my head down, scrolling social media and blocking anyone who has even one syllable to say about what went down back east.Ten minutes later, the bartender delivers a plate of fried cheese curds that are so fresh you can see the steam rising even in the dim of the bar. I take tiny bites, trying not to burn my tongue but unable to resist gobbling down this midwestern delicacy.

I’m not happy to be here. But I can’t deny that South Dakota does have a few things going for it — and these cheese curds are at the top of the list. They don’t make these in good old NYC. Not in the same way, at least. And even if they did, I wouldn’t have let myself even smell anything fried, much less eat it. Not in my line of work.

I don’t have to live like that anymore.

I polish off my food in record time. Warmed and sated, I sip my beer slowly and let my gaze wander The Bison’s interior.

The place is pretty much what you’d expect from a midwest dive bar — grizzled old men in cowboy hats and boots, log plank walls covered in animal heads and antique hunting rifles, and country music blaring. The Halloween decorations are a welcome surprise — I guess even Deadwood doesn’t have its head in the sand enough to forget my favorite holiday.

A young woman about my age with brown hair and a desperate expression bustles up to me, brandishing a pamphlet. “You here for the Find Your Boo event?”

“Um, come again?”

She waves the pamphlet almost aggressively. I take it to appease her, and the crease in her forehead smooths slightly. “The speed dating event,” she says with exasperation.

“No, I—”

“Please,” she drops her voice, eyes pleading. “It’s about to start and we don’t have enough women. You don’t have to go on any dates, just fill a spot for tonight. You’d be doing me a huge favor.”

I don’t owe this woman a damn thing. Her Boo troubles are wholly her own. I can say no with zero guilt.

Then why do I find myself nodding and letting her lead me into a room on the far end of the bar, dragging my suitcase?

“You’re a lifesaver,” she says, and the gratitude in her voice is real. “Your next drink is on me — hell,allyour drinks tonight are on me. I’m Hannah, by the way.”

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