“He so likes you.” Her voice is a loud screech through the phone. “Sounds smitten.”
“Let’s not get carried away. He didn’t ask for my number or ask me out.”
I imagine her optimism deflating like a balloon.
“Maybe he’s awkward like you. Or shy?”
“Men who look like him aren’t shy.” Although our goodbye today did feel clumsy.
“Fine. You’re right. He’s not interested. Random coincidences, that’s all. So tell me how you’re doing. What’s new that doesn’t involve a Y chromosome?”
“Guess that leaves out my coworker suggesting I dress up in a salamander costume for school visits.”
Her laugh is more of a cackle. “You should totally do it, especially if there’s a headpiece. You can hide inside and avoid eye contact. Isn’t that what you learned from ranger school about interacting with wild animals? Don’t stare at them because they take it as a form of aggression?”
“I’m not dressing up as a weird amphibian.”
“Think about it.”
“No.”
“Daphne.” Her tone switches to serious. “Don’t forget to have fun. Life isn’t only about work.”
She’s said this to me countless times over the years. “I know, Pot. Enough about me. How are you?”
“Same as always, Kettle. Working, going out, not getting enough sleep. I swear my rebound ability has disappeared. Turned thirty-three and poof! Gone.”
The background noise increases and I imagine her or someone else opening the door to the bar.
“Speaking of, I should get back. Lynne has been sucking up to our manager all night. If I don’t watch out, she’ll sweet-talk her way into my promotion.”
“How dare she!” I exaggerate my outrage.
“I know! Let’s talk soon. Text me if anything interesting happens or send pictures of the salamander suit. Love you!”
“Love you back.”
She disconnects before I can protest the rest of her statement.
I really do love and adore her but our life paths are so different. She works in an office building downtown and lives in a condo with a balcony she barely uses. Even with the salary increase that comes with being promoted, I probably earn half of what she does.
After my student loan and car payments, I’m not left with much in my account for extras like fancy cheeses and charcuterie boards. I never eat out, although, I’ll occasionally grab a muffin or sweet treat from the day-old selection at Donner Bakery.
Because I wear a uniform to work and rarely go out, I don’t need a whole closet full of clothes.
Clicking on the worn keys of my ancient laptop, I scroll through Pinterest, pinning recipes of meals I’ll probably never make for dinner parties I’ll probably never host.
Creating imaginary menus both soothes and agitates me—a distraction from boredom and the meager contents of my fridge. Sometimes I’ll pull up an online grocery app and load my cart with everything delicious, briefly living in a fantasy of not caring about the price and my budget.
A side effect of these imaginary menus is hunger. I’ve already eaten dinner, and there’s nothing good to snack on.
I open my other fantasy board: travel.
Fifty states. Seven continents. Almost two hundred countries. There’s a huge world out there, waiting to be experienced.
A quick glance over my shoulder at my map reminds me of all the states I’ve already visited. I have a pin stuck in every place I’ve been, and they’re color-coded by the reason for the visit: college, work, and vacation.
Most of the pins are green for work.
I figure I’ll be working my whole life to pay off my college loans, so the romanticized notion of retirement seems impossible even if I work as a ranger long enough to get a pension. My last boss encouraged me to open an IRA. With a very serious expression, he said he had two words that could change my life: compound interest.
Whatever little money I can save goes into a travel fund. Scanning the beautiful photos, I sigh at the impossibility of me ever having enough to spend a week or an off-season in Europe or New Zealand. Sometimes I scroll sites that give packing tips for visiting popular destinations during different times of the year. As if I’ll ever need a fall wardrobe for Scotland or outfits for a summer on the coast of Italy.
Like my dinner party boards, I guess it’s good to dream. Fantasies are free.
Speaking of fantasies, I open a new browser window and type in Odin. Sixty-two million results. I click on the first entry for the Norse god. Maybe his legendary namesake will give me more clues to the real man.
Things I know about him so far:
He’s has a booth at the farmers’ market at the community center where he sells peculiar vegetables.
He lives in a holler.
He walks a pig on a leash.
He’s kind of a weirdo.
He is not living with anyone.
Add to that comprehensive list: he also owns a fancy Italian dog.
Let’s not forget the part about him resembling a younger, hotter version of the deity whose name he bears with the beard, the long hair, the fierce expression that could probably conjure lightning from the sky if he so wished.
He also smells of the woods on a sunny day.
Yep. That’s the extent of my knowledge.
So far.
I doubt he has a social media presence, but I still type in his last name out of curiosity. He might have a website for the farm.
The amended results fill the screen. My mouth hangs open.
In shock, I snap the laptop closed and set it aside.
I need to tell Kacey. Then I remember she’s out tonight and who knows when she’ll be home.
I can wait. I’ll text her tomorrow. We can be on the phone while we sort through the pages of results.
I laugh—to think I first thought of him as a wholesome farm boy.
Eyeing my laptop like it’s a snake coiled to attack, I stand up and pace my small living area. It’s possible, although unlikely, that I mistyped his name. There could be an Owen Hill or an Odin Hall doppelgänger out there.
Without trying, I read a few of the headlines before I aborted the mission. One in particular stands out:
“Celebrity Chef Protégé Arrested on Drug Possession After Bar Brawl.”
Beneath was a row of images of a younger Odin looking more scruffy bad boy than mountain hermit. I briefly caught a mention of a Michelin Star, whatever that means.
This might explain the fancy dog.
Doesn’t explain the pig, though.
Unless …
She’s part of some act he’s putting on while he hides out in his holler.
Kacey was right—why do all the handsome men have to be morally bankrupt? On the outside he’s a delicious-looking jelly donut. On the inside, he’s filled with slime.
I’ve spent enough time thinking about Odin Hill. There are more productive things I could be doing—like sleeping.
Going to bed would be the smartest option right now.
Once I’m settled in, I toss and turn, readjusting my pillow and blanket a dozen times. Finally I give up and turn on the lamp, looking to the stack of books on my nightstand. Picking the one on the top, I open it to a random chapter and begin reading about the early history of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
I’m dozing off when a car alarm starts screeching.