in a serious relationship, and she was ready to find ‘the one.’ Her parents had met at college, and she had this big idea built up in her head. I thought we’d found a pretty good middle ground, but then after my injury, she said she didn’t think I was taking things seriously enough.”
“That sounds like a cop-out.”
There’s a glimmer of pain or disappointment that has his jaw clenching and the corner of his eyes pinching. “Thanks for sugarcoating it.”
“Did you like her? Like, did you want to potentially be the guy she’d marry and bestow that unrealistic ideal and hope to your kids?” The question sounds bitchy and rude and judgy, making me regret it instantly. “I didn’t mean for that to sound half as bitter as it did. I mean, if you want that, I’m not judging. I get it, I mean, in some ways I think of those same stories that I might tell my kids one day, but it just seems a little crazy that she thinks she has to meet her future husband now because her parents did.”
He takes a deep breath, the stacks of muscles in his shoulders shifting, enhancing both his height and the width of his shoulders, the expanse of his biceps. “I don’t know. I didn’t start to think about being in a serious relationship with anyone until this year. I’ve enjoyed being single and not worrying about words or plans meaning something or not meaning something. I came here with a clean slate and just wanted to have fun and play this game that I love.”
“I’m sure it’s kind of overwhelming to plan what’s next when your future could be rewritten in a dozen different ways depending on where you’re drafted. I mean, you could end up anywhere across the US.”
His gaze cuts across the space to me, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Sorry. Lots of heavy. Three things you love about living in Washington. Go.”
“My friends. Coffee. Acceptance. Seattle is just so laid back, and they don’t care if people are different, and I appreciate that.” He cocks his head toward me again. “I’d ask you the same, but I have a feeling I’d be hearing Rose. Rose. Rose.”
A laugh tinkers between my lips, both too feminine and too high. I swallow, hoping he doesn’t know me well enough to notice. “You could add coffee to my list as well.”
He laughs. “Finally, you admit to being human. Okay, three pet peeves?”
“I only get to choose three?”
His lips tie with a grin. “Top three.”
“Lying. People checking their reflection every time they pass a mirror. And gum-chewing.”
His eyebrows arch. “You and your dad aren’t close?”
I swallow again, but this time rather than attempting to clear my throat, it’s to clear my thoughts. Did I just describe my father? It’s the gum-chewing that likely has him associating the two.
“You’re going to tell me it’s complicated again, aren’t you?” he asks.
“I thought we were done with heavy?”
He flexes his bicep. “Do I look like I’m afraid of heavy?”
I roll my eyes and bite my lips to prevent myself from smiling. I’m sure he’s gained plenty of attention from doing this same move countless times before—it’s too rehearsed, and he’s too smooth.
“I wasn’t describing my dad.”
“No?”
“We get along. It’s just … weird. I feel like he’s always trying too hard and still thinks I’m ten.” It’s a filtered version of the truth, considering some days we feel like strangers, but it’s not a lie. “The gum chewing is all him, though. It drives me crazy.”
Arlo smiles again, but this time it isn’t nearly as broad. More silent questions are visible when he glances at me. “What are your three pet peeves?” I ask him.
“Flakes—people who bail out at the last minute are the worst. People walking while video chatting, and fake people.”
“So, you’re saying fake flakes are out this season?”
His laughter is authentic, cutting through the remaining awkwardness from talking about my dad. It’s a good sound, loud and uninhibited without being obnoxious or ridiculous.
We pass the rest of the time in what feels like only minutes, exchanging questions and answers to questions both vast and simple, our answers frequently becoming longer and provoking conversation that derails our initial point until one of us leads us back with a new question.
“Entering Oregon,” Arlo reads as we cross a bridge. “This is the Columbia River. You’ll hear people talk about coming down and floating this river sometimes. I don’t know why they come all the way