Darling Rose Gold(59)

“Maybe we could walk over,” I said. “I’ve been sitting for, like, twenty-four hours.”

Phil glanced at me sideways. “No problem,” he said. He stopped walking, so I stopped too. “You don’t think I’m out to hurt you or anything, do you?”

I gave him a small smile. “Of course not. Just want a little fresh air.”

We walked the rest of the way to the restaurant in silence. Phil offered to carry my suitcase, but I declined, although I didn’t have anything valuable inside. If I had to leave it behind in an emergency, so be it.

At the Crispy Biscuit, an apathetic waitress seated us in a sticky booth and handed us menus. Phil took off his beret to reveal a receding hairline that made me wince. He hummed to himself while he examined the menu. Meanwhile, I planned an escape route.

I’d get through this meal, then make up some excuse about having an aunt in town who would pick me up. In fact, maybe I should tell him about the aunt now so he’d know someone would notice if I was missing. But how many times had I told him in past conversations that I had no living relatives but my mother? Maybe this could be a long-lost aunt. Or wait. I’d told him about finding my dad. I could say my dad was on a business trip in Denver, and he was picking me up after his meeting. Maybe I should actually text Dad to let him know I was in danger. He’d said he needed space, but I doubted that included emergencies. Maybe this could be the thing that brought us back together. He’d feel guilty and forget all the stuff he’d said. He could be the proverbial dad sitting on his porch with a shotgun, waiting for his daughter’s sixty-year-old boyfriend to bring her home. I tried to imagine Dad holding a gun. I couldn’t.

“What’s it gonna be?” Phil asked, watching me. I bet Phil owned lots of guns.

I started. “Sorry?”

“I’m going to have the Denver omelet. Anything sound good to you?”

In spite of my nerves, I realized I was starving. I hadn’t eaten a real meal in two days. I glanced at the menu and picked the first thing I saw. “Blueberry pancakes.”

“Good choice.” Phil smirked and leaned in. “You know, you don’t have to look so scared. I’m not some crazy ax murderer or something.”

I squawked out a laugh. “Isn’t that exactly what a crazy ax murderer would say?” I sounded like my mom.

“You invited me to meet you,” Phil reminded me.

“You’re just . . . ,” I faltered.

“Old?” Phil guessed.

“You said you dropped out of high school.”

“I did. A long time ago.” Phil chuckled.

“You said you live at your aunt and uncle’s house.”

“I do. They sold it to me a while back.”

I scowled. “You’re different than I expected.”

He gave me the once-over. “So are you.”

What was that supposed to mean? Was I uglier than he’d predicted? Flatter chested? Scrawnier? I wondered if he was sizing me up, guessing how much I weighed, how much of a fight I’d put up if he carried me to his truck. Or what if he wasn’t forceful but instead tried to woo me? Under no circumstances did I want to have sex with this man.

“I never wanted to become a lifelong bachelor, reading Kafka alone in my cabin in the woods.” Phil paused. “I’m kidding—Kafka’s full of shit. You ever read him?”

I shook my head.

“Don’t bother. I’m more of a Margaret Atwood fan myself. I’ve read The Handmaid’s Tale at least thirty times. Gives you something different to chew on with every read, you know? But I’ll be the first to admit I like a little Eat Pray Love as much as the next guy. Elizabeth Gilbert is a national treasure.” The way Phil was babbling, I wondered whether he had spoken to anyone in the last sixty years. I had to admit, he didn’t strike me as an ax murderer.

“Do you really live alone in a cabin in the woods?” I asked.

He chuckled again. “That’s all you took away? I told you I live in a cabin.”

“Yeah, with your uncle and aunt,” I glared, becoming less scared of him.

“Let’s be honest.” His eyes twinkled. “Nobody wants to talk to an old guy online, even if he’s a nice old guy. Sometimes we have to get creative with the truth. You understand, don’t you, Katie?” He was enjoying himself, as though this were all some master prank.

I guessed it was. I’d spent five years of my life thinking I was in a real relationship, yet I was no closer to my first kiss. I wanted to both laugh and cry.

“I take it you don’t snowboard either,” I said.

Phil belted out a laugh and slapped his belly. “Not since I threw my back out in oh-eight. I did take a lesson once. Hunter said I was a natural.” He beamed.

Hunter—now that was the name of a plausible twentysomething snowboard instructor. I wanted to smack myself.

“Don’t you get lonely, living by yourself?” I asked.

“I thought you said you live alone too,” Phil said.

I stared at my hot chocolate. “I never said I wasn’t lonely.”

Phil’s expression softened. “Sure, I’d rather have a wife and kids, and even grandkids by now. But I strike out every time I try courting someone in real life. Had my heart broken one too many times, so I’ve accepted the hand I was dealt.” My face must have been filled with pity because he continued. “Look, I make the best of it. I grow vegetables and bake bread. I get my meat from a butcher in Denver. I’m trying to make my house self-sustainable, but I’m not a total recluse or anything. I sing in a church choir once a month. As Thoreau said, ‘I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude.’”