Page 5 of Out of Luck in the Outback

“Chicago?”

Any time you say you’re from Illinois, that’s the usual assumption. “Now, yes. I grew up in Alton, though. You?” I ask, adjusting the rag on my hand. I wince a little as the rag moves away from my skin.

“Juneau, Alaska.”

“I’ve never met anyone from Alaska before. Not that I know of, anyway.”

“I’m in Chicago quite a bit. What part?”

“I live near Wrigley.”

“Go to a lot of Cubs games?” he asks, giddy. He must be a fan.

“Only when they play my St. Louis Cardinals.”

He grimaces and pulls out my chair. “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree on that one.”

I sit, open my oatmeal packet, and dump it into the hot water, keeping an eye on him the entire time. I’m not sure why, but I want him in my line of sight. Like he’ll disappear like a magic trick if I don’t look at him.

“Why do you come to Chicago a lot?”

He shrugs and looks away. “Not really important.”

Girlfriend. He probably has some gorgeous model girlfriend that acts in the theater district or has some super cool penthouse that overlooks the river. I don’t know why I thought he was single. He looks like he stepped out ofGQ. He probably has a girlfriend in every city on four continents.

“What do you do in Alaska?” I ask. I’m curious about him and want some information, even if he is taken.

He runs his hand up the back of his neck like he’s thinking. Is he thinking of a lie? Most people can rattle off what they do for a living. Niles brings a loaded plate of baked beans on toast along with sliced tomatoes and sets it in front of Maddox. Maddox thanks him and pulls out a napkin and fork, even slicing the tomato before answering my question. “I’m a fisherman.”

“That’s a hobby.”

“Do you eat fish in restaurants?”

“When I feel like a good piece of salmon or there’s a fish fry in my hometown.”

“Not a hobby, then. That fish you eat in restaurants comes from somewhere. What do you do? Is it a hobby?”

I set my spoon down. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I just thought you sat out with a pole and caught fish all day.” He smiles and takes a bite of his food, and I chastise myself for being mean to the beautiful man next to me that’s been nothing but nice. “I’m a writer. I write for a travel magazine.”

He drops his fork and swallows, looking at me with interest. “Which magazine?”

“Nickel Travel Times. Do you know it?”

He smiles again and widens his eyes as he reaches for his fork. “Not something I read in my bathroom. Are you doing a piece on Australia? Is that why you’re here?”

I moan and drop my head to the table. The movement startles him, and he lifts a section of my long hair away from my ear so he can see my face. “Hello in there. Are you alive?”

Raising my head, I wipe a tear away from my eye as it starts to fall. “No, I’m not. My boss gave me an impossible assignment, and I feel like I’ve been set up for failure,” I wail, waving my hands and almost knocking over the cup of hot water again.

“What’s the assignment?” he laughs. “Brothels of Sydney? Because I’ll do some research for you if it would help.”

I don’t need to hear about him visiting a brothel or looking at other women. “Nothing like that!” I frantically interrupt. “My boss only booked two days in this bed and breakfast, and he gave me this incredibly low budget, hence the oatmeal.” I point to the empty packet on the table, and Maddox’s eyes follow my finger. “I have no money because Chicago rent is high, my boss says my stories are boring, and I have to survive on fifty bucks a day. That’s about thirty-four American dollars a day at the current exchange rate. I can’t eat and travel on thirty-four dollars a day, and I can’t even think about what to do next because all I can think about is how jet-lagged I am and how my hand now hurts like hell.”

“That’s not a lot to spend on a trip,” he murmurs, nodding his head. He pats my back, and the pats become circles that feel better than should be allowed.

“He wants me to hitchhike. Hitchhike! I could be killed. There’s probably an Australian version of Ted Bundy out there just waiting for a blond girl from Illinois to stick her thumb out because her boss is too cheap to spring for simple bus tickets.”

I put my head down on the table again and feel the coolness of the varnished wood against my forehead. His hand is still on my back, rubbing concentric circles down my spine and moving to each shoulder. I haven’t been in Sydney more than a few hours, and I’m already making a sad spectacle of myself.

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