Darling Rose Gold(60)

In any other story, Phil would be a serial killer. In this one, he was a philosophical hermit.

The waitress dropped off our food. I drizzled a heap of blueberry syrup on top of the blueberry pancakes, cut off a piece, and ate it. A shiver still ran through me when I took a first bite of an especially delicious meal, and this time was no different. The pancakes were thick and fluffy and melted in my mouth. I ate forkful after forkful, not caring if I looked insane.

“What do you mean, ‘self-sustainable’?” I asked between bites.

“I have my own hydroponic garden for water. I use my own heating and cooling systems. No bank accounts. I pay cash and get paid in cash.”

“What do you do for work?”

“Sell my produce, tutor high school kids, snow removal in the winter.” He leaned in and gestured for me to do the same. “Create fake identities.”

I almost laughed, then realized he was serious. Where was this guy when I needed to pretend I was twenty-one so I could join Alex and Whitney at Kirkwood?

“Is Phil your fake identity?”

Phil raised his eyebrows, suggesting the answer was yes.

“What’s your birth name?”

Phil shook his head. “Sorry, kiddo. No can tell. I changed my name thirty years ago to get away from my past.” He studied his omelet. “I also have a mother I’d like to forget.”

I couldn’t believe real Phil and I had something in common. I had forgotten that all this time, I’d been telling him about the horror show that was my own mother.

“I know what you mean,” I said, anger creeping into my voice. “My mom ruined my life.”

Phil gave me a sad smile. “Don’t hold on to that bitterness, darlin’. It’ll crush you.”

“How do you let it go?” I asked.

“That’s the million-dollar question.” He took the final bite of his omelet.

I realized I probably needed the real Phil in this moment more than the online version I thought I’d been dating. I smiled at him, a genuine smile to let him know I was happy to be there, grateful to be sitting across from another human being with a lousy childhood.

Phil cringed a tiny bit—at my teeth, what else? My cheeks flushed. This whole time, I thought I’d been the only one repulsed. I imagined meeting Phil at this diner again, a few years from now, once I had my gleaming white teeth. I’d never be embarrassed to smile again.

“Excuse me,” Phil said, rising from the booth and folding his napkin. He placed it where he’d been sitting. “Need to use the facilities.”

When he’d left, I pulled out my phone and texted my dad.

    Me: I decided to meet up with a guy in Colorado I’ve been talking to online

Me: Turns out he’s, like, 60 and lives alone in the woods. I thought he was 20

Me: He seems okay, but if you don’t hear from me for a while, just call the Denver police, okay?



I reread the texts. Everything I’d said was true. So what if I left out some minor details that would have assuaged my father’s fears? No way could he ignore me now. I’d have to wait for his phone to find service; he had warned me he would be out of touch while they were camping. I put my phone back in my purse.

Phil returned from the bathroom and sat. He noted my empty plate, impressed I’d finished. “Good?” he asked.

“Delicious,” I said.

“The Crispy Biscuit never disappoints.”

The waitress brought the check. Phil laid two twenty-dollar bills on the table. I reached for my own wallet, but he waved me off. I didn’t object.

He cleared his throat. “Well, I don’t think either of us is hoping for something physical.”

I shook my head. Part of me was overjoyed Phil wasn’t interested; the other part was ashamed I was being rejected by a sixtysomething loner.

“For me, our relationship was never about the physical anyway,” he said, fidgeting. “All those years ago, you seemed like you could use a friend.”

I opened my mouth, but couldn’t think of anything to say. I felt pathetic, listening to Phil describe sixteen-year-old me. Worst of all, five years later, the description still fit.

“I needed a friend too,” he tried to reassure me. “Which is why I didn’t want to leave you hanging at the bus depot today. I was also once a kid running away from abuse.”

Was that what I was doing? The question flickered while Phil kept talking.

“Here’s my idea. Why don’t I drive you to the airport? I’ll give you four hundred bucks for a plane ticket, and you can fly anywhere you want. You can start over.”

He watched me with hope. I’d read this man completely wrong. He wasn’t out to hurt me—he wanted to help. I was too exhausted and overwhelmed to tear up.

“I don’t want to get back on that bus.” I laughed weakly.

“You don’t have to. Let me help you,” Phil said. “When I was your age, someone helped me get back on my feet. And I vowed to do the same someday.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” Phil said.

We left the diner together. I had the urge to hug this stranger I’d known for so long, but didn’t want to chance sending any wrong signals. Just in case.

The thirty-minute ride to Denver Airport was a quiet one. While Phil drove, I thought about where I’d go. I could fly to California and see the ocean for the first time. Or the Statue of Liberty in New York. I wondered if four hundred dollars was enough to buy a ticket to Mexico—it was supposed to be sunny and warm, and no one would know my story there. I could be Rose or pick a new name, like Phil had.