It’s a gorgeous day for a drive, with the sun shining in the blue, blue sky and Mount Hood majestic in the distance, wearing its tiny, summer-sized snowcap. A part of me wants to keep driving, just head off into the wilderness and get lost for a week or two, but that’s the fear talking.

That’s the voice in my head that assures me that if I fuck up this interview, I’ll have to get a job flipping burgers or scooping ice cream to make ends meet, and nearly a decade of dedication to my craft will have all been for nothing. I’ll be right back where I started when I got my first job sophomore year of high school, waiting tables at Bill’s Taco Palace. Except this time around I’ll have to find a way to make a minimum wage job stretch to cover my room and board since I won’t be shacking up with my parents.

“No way, Daniels. you are going to ace this interview,” I murmur to my reflection as I smooth on a coat of lipstick and check my hair in the parking lot of Good Timber’s new St. Johns location, next to several trendy home goods stores and a gourmet cheese shop. “You look good, your portfolio looks good, and these guys are down to earth people who are hoping you’re the one they’re looking for so they can stop looking and get back to making beer and drinking beer and thinking up fun slogans for beer T-shirts.”

I hold my own gaze for a long moment, waiting until the anxiety tightening the edges of my eyes relaxes and I look like a calm, collected, only slightly crazy professional creative person. My outfit is perfect this time—a short white cotton sundress covered with brightly colored flowers, worn over a pair of suit pants made of jeans fabric, and cowgirl boots. I look like a girl who likes to work hard and think whimsical, publicity-friendly thoughts, but isn’t too uptight to enjoy a beer at the end of the day.

I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, so it’s time to get in there and knock this interview out of the park.

I swing out into the day, fetch my battered antique portfolio case from the trunk of Laura’s car—thankful for her willingness to let Brendan shuttle her to and from work today—and head for the tinted glass doors beneath a row of carved wooden animal heads adorning the Good Timber entrance. Inside, the same dim, middle-of-an-enchanted-forest vibe I experienced at the downtown location reigns, making me feel even more at home.

There are still a few workers laying tile, and the large wall on my right displays a half-finished mural of an owl taking flight, but the same graceful totem poles are already installed throughout the dining room, and the bar is a roughly carved chunk of redwood that is flat-out stunning. I can already tell that this space is going to be even lovelier than the flagship bar, as well as a more hangout-friendly location. In addition to the bar and dining areas, there’s a courtyard in the back, ringed by ivy-covered walls.

It’s from the courtyard that a tall, dark-haired man in jeans and a Good Timber T-shirt emerges, walking toward me with a smile. “Diana?”

I nod and hold out an only slightly trembling hand. “Jax?”

“That’s me,” he says, displaying almost alarmingly white teeth as he takes my hand and gives it a firm squeeze. “So glad you could come chat today.”

“Me, too. It’s great to see the new place.” I gesture to the room at large. “I love everything you’ve got going on here.”

“Awesome. Because we love your work.” He motions for me to follow him to the back of the restaurant. “My partners are out on the patio. Come meet them, and we can talk about what we’re looking for. Steve, our current PR guy, is here, too, so he can answer any creative questions you might have. The rest of us are beer makers and money managers, so we’re useless for anything except saying we love a concept or don’t love it just yet.”

I smile as I fall in beside him, liking that he doesn’t shorten his long stride for me. “I wouldn’t call that useless. Beer making and money managing are arts of their own.”

“Thanks. I’ll have to get you to talk to my mother next time she’s in town. She thinks I’m wasting my life getting people drunk.”

“Mothers are tricky like that sometimes,” I say vaguely, not wanting to get too familiar.

But it’s hard. Jax is easy to talk to, and his business partners for this location—Kyle and Kevin—are the cutest hipster couple I’ve ever met. They have matching well-trimmed beards and beanie caps, and plaid shirts that are clearly trying to pull off a lumberjack vibe but are too crisply pressed and decorated with eclectic buttons to be anything other than adorable. Steve is super nice, too—a tall, thin, serious-looking man in his thirties with expressive hands who tells surprisingly funny jokes.

We talk for the better part of an hour. The men explain how they want Good Timber to be a culture, a way of life, a family more than a brand. I chat with them about my work with the National Park Service, and how so much of what I did, aside from taking pretty pictures, was keeping the public informed about the gift they’d been given when the parks were created and building a feeling of good will and gratitude.

“Our goal was that every time you see a National Park sign, you should feel warm, cozy, and thankful inside,” I explain. “And maybe a little nostalgic, for the good old days of camping and hiking with your family when you were a kid.”

Jax nods. “I get that.”

“I think you succeeded,” Steve adds. “I started donating to the parks just two years ago, largely because of your publicity efforts. Before that, the parks were one of those things I didn’t think about as often as I should, considering how much time my wife and I spend outdoors.”

“Well, it wasn’t just my effort,” I hurry to clarify. “I was one of the moving parts. But it was rewarding work. And I think we could do something similar with Good Timber.”

We chat for another twenty minutes, and then Jax leaves to take a phone call, only to return a few moments later with a beer sampler flight from the bar.

As he sets it at the center of the table, Kevin says, “I completely agree.” Kyle adds, “Me, too,” and Steve smiles and gives a thumbs-up.

I blink, turning to watch Jax as he settles into his seat beside me. “Did I miss something?”

“Not at all,” he says. “Just wanted to see if you would like to try some of the new brews we’ll be introducing this fall. We’re going to offer you the job, so we thought you might want to try the product first. See if you’re still excited to take us on after you’ve tasted the Pumpkin Sour, which we’re warning our patrons is a bit of an acquired taste.”

My grin explodes across my cheeks, leaving me no time to talk my face into playing it cool. “Really? I’ve got the job?”

“If you want it,” Jax says. “You had the best interview, and we could really use some feminine energy around here. Since our other partner left to start a brewery in Washington, we’ve been more out of balance than usual.”

“I would love to be the feminine energy,” I say, fighting to keep from bouncing up and down in my chair. “And I would love the job. Thank you so, so much. I can’t wait to get to work!”

We celebrate with a tasting of five delicious beers—even the Pumpkin Sour is phenomenal, and I usually can’t stand anything pumpkin flavored—and by the time I head for the door, I’ve worked up an unexpected buzz. If I’d eaten lunch, I would be fine, but I was too nervous to eat before the interview. Now, I should probably give myself an hour or two—and a meal—before I drive Laura’s car back to my brother’s house.

Acting on the spur of the moment, I text Tanner, Want to meet me in St. John’s near the new Good Timber location? And let me treat you to dinner? Looks like they’ve got a few places to choose from. Mexican, a bistro type place, a Brazilian steakhouse…

After only a moment, he responds. I’ll be there in five. Just got done at the gym, so I’m not far. I’m assuming this means the interview went well?

Yeah, pretty well, I text back, grinning like a loon as I hit caps lock and add, BECAUSE THEY OFFERED ME THE FUCKING JOB AND I FUCKING TOOK IT, MOTHERFUCKER!!!

Congratulations!!! Tanner responds. That’s amazing news! I’m so happy for you. I knew you’d rock that interview. You’re exactly the kind of smart, creative, crazy person they need around there.

My thumbs hover over the keypad as I bite my lip and try to think of something more eloquent to say than “thanks for helping me get the interview.” But my brain is beer and post-interview-stress-release fuzzy, so I just tap out, Can’t wait to buy you a beer. Thanks so much for your help. It’s going to be so wonderful to be an employed member of the populace again.

My pleasure, Pixie. Always happy to help. See you soon. He sends a beer emoji and a confetti emoji, and I continue to smile as I roll my eyes.

“Such a dork with the emojis,” I mutter as I wander toward the shops and restaurants farther down the street, sending him a smiling poop, a happy monster, and a little alien video game creature jumping up and down.

I usually won’t touch an emoji with a ten-foot pole, but I’m a little tipsy and I know they’ll make Tanner laugh.

And I like making him laugh.

I like it a lot. I like it so much it should be scaring the shit out of me. I know this even before he sends back a unicorn and an eggplant, making me laugh so hard I have to stop to lean against the brick wall of the building next to me and catch my breath.

I’m still there, giggling and blushing and making a spectacle of myself, when a familiar silhouette emerges from the fancy home goods store just ahead.

It’s the kind of place where you can buy fine china with limited edition patterns, hand-carved chairs from Denmark, and sinfully soft Egyptian cotton napkins dyed such beautiful colors it seems a shame to use them to wipe spaghetti sauce from the corners of your mouth. In other words, it’s the kind of place I never set foot in. Not because I don’t love beautiful things, but because I’ve moved so much for work that I’ve never had time to decorate. And then there’s the matter of having little or no disposable income. My money goes right back into lenses, flash attachments, and bigger, badder hard drives to handle the processing of massive image files.

But in my secret heart of hearts, I’ve harbored fine china type wishes. Or at least fancy plate type wishes. I’ve always thought I would like to buy one place setting of several different patterns, so I would always have something that fit my present state of mind and meal.

Japanese blue calligraphy with intricate flowers around the rim for Sunday morning breakfast, peacocks waving flags to spruce up a lunchtime salad, and hand-painted woodland creatures for afternoon fruit and nut snacks or evenings when a boiled egg, slices of avocado, and a few pickles are as fancy as I can bring myself to get with dinner.

Suffice it to say, I’ve thought enough about these kinds of things to experience a pang of longing when I walk by a window display featuring carefully chosen combinations of plates and bowls artfully arranged on a table. But that pang is nothing compared to the marrow-deep flash of agony that ricochets through my bones as I realize who that familiar silhouette belongs to.

It’s Sam—my Sam, the only man who ever made me think that maybe the whole “happily ever after” thing wasn’t a complete crock of shit after all—and he’s not alone.

Beside him, dressed in a sky-blue linen sundress with birds taking wing near the hem, is Madeline. Madeline of the lily-white complexion, bee-stung red lips, and glossy black hair she keeps tied back in a crisp ribbon like a modern day, all-grown-up Snow White. In addition to the lovely face, Madeline has curves for miles, tiny feet that look ridiculously precious in kitten-heel pumps, and a big, sexy brain that does important work for refugees in crisis. She’s an attorney at a non-profit who spends her spare time backpacking in exotic locales, somehow managing to remain flawlessly elegant and gorgeous even after sweating it up in the jungles of South America for the better part of a week.

I know this about Madeline because I am one of those weak-willed human beings who Googles her ex just to slice open a pain vein and sob about how much it hurts. At least once every few months or so, I drink too much wine, misplace my instinct of self-preservation, and end up cruising through Sam’s most recent social media posts, scanning shots of him and Madeline hamming it up in selfies from the top of a mountain they’ve climbed, cuddling near the fireplace at a friend’s party, or laughing adorably over happy hour beverages and karaoke.

Stalking was how I found out Sam and Madeline were engaged in the first place. How I learned that the ring was of a moderate size—Sam’s a travel writer and far richer in adventures and tall tales than cold, hard cash—but exceeding loveliness. It’s an antique, with a rose diamond as elegant and flawless as Madeline herself.

I can see the ring now. My gaze locks on it, staring it down like the barrel of a gun aimed in my direction, unable to tear my eyes away even when Sam draws to an abrupt halt outside the store and says in an uncomfortably stunned tone, “Diana? What a surprise seeing you here.”

With panic gripping my throat, I look away from the evidence of just how completely Sam has moved on from that endless summer we shared two years ago, and up to meet his eyes. The moment my gaze crashes into his baby blues, my heart shrivels into a tiny, sad raisin, lying dehydrated in a dusty corner of a kitchen someone forgot to sweep.

It is something that was once good, then decent, and now would be better off in the trash. But no one cares enough to bother. My desiccated heart is so wretchedly beneath notice that it can’t even be properly thrown away.

The metaphor is strained, but I can’t help it. That’s where my thoughts go and where they stay—in the sad kitchen with the pathetic, dusty, abandoned raisin—as my lips curve and I say, “Hey, Sam! Nice to see you. Congratulations on your engagement!”

Madeline, who has stood silently smiling—warmly, if a bit uncomfortably—says, “Thank you,” at the same moment Sam asks, “How did you know?”

I realize that I’ve made a serious lapse—always a bad idea to forget what you’ve learned cyber-stalking and what you’ve been told in real life—and scramble to figure out a way I could have found out about Sam’s engagement that would leave my dignity intact. But we have no friends in common, no intersections in our work, and I seriously doubt Madeline went to the effort to have their engagement announced in the paper. She’s too busy saving refugee children and exploring the world to waste time crowing about her upcoming nuptials.

I open my mouth to babble something about “hearing it around somewhere” when I’m cut off by an arm wrapping around my waist and a deep voice that says, “Sorry to keep you waiting, beautiful.”

I look up into Tanner’s handsome face, my raisin heart plumping at the warmth in his eyes. “No worries.” I sag against him. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, and it won’t happen again.” He leans down, capturing my lips in a long, sweet, thorough kiss that makes my shriveled heart swell to its full size, plus a little extra plumpness from pure gratitude.

I have no idea how he knew I needed this kiss, this rescue, but I’m so grateful for it. And I’m so thankful to have someone to lean on as the kiss ends and I turn back to Sam and Madeline with a rush of breath. “Sorry. Tanner, this is Sam and…” I furrow my brow, pretending to rack my brain and come up empty. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve—”

“Madeline,” she pipes up, her Snow White face beaming brightly as she glances from me to Tanner. “Madeline Sparks. And you’re Tanner Nowicki. I’m a huge Badgers fan. Sam and I were at the first game you played last year.”

Tanner laughs. “Sorry about that. Took me a few games to hit my stride.”

“No!” Madeline shakes her head emphatically. “You were great! And you just kept getting better as the season went on. I hope you’re going to be in Portland again this year.”

“I am,” Tanner confirms. “Love this city, and Badger fans are the best.”

Sam chuckles, a sarcastic sound that’s unlike him. Or at least, it’s unlike the Sam I used to know, the one who had such a wide-open heart that he could find wonder in the smallest things. “I don’t know about that. We’re a restrained crew compared to the animals north of the border. I’m from Canada, where hockey is something you bleed for, not just an evening’s entertainment. Right, Diana?”

I nod in Canadian solidarity—another great thing about Sam, he always understood and enthusiastically supported my Canadian pride. “Absolutely. But I confess it’s nice to go to a game without having to watch grown men burst into tears when their team doesn’t make the playoffs.”

“I guess.” The skin at the sides of Sam’s eyes wrinkles in that way that used to make me melt. “Though you have to respect their passion.”

I swallow hard, wishing he hadn’t said that word. I don’t want to think about passion right now, not with the man I used to love standing so close I can smell his wheat berry cologne mixing with his fiancée’s lighter, sweeter perfume, and the man I’m trying to have uncomplicated sex with rubbing his palm up and down my side, from my waist to the curve of my hip and back again. I feel trapped between the tragic past and the impossible present, and the pressure is squeezing my brain like a stress ball.

Before I can blurt out something stupid or make a break for the Mexican restaurant across the street to drown my angst in an extra large frozen margarita, Tanner comes to the rescue again. “Hate to cut hockey talk short, but we’ve got reservations. Nice meeting you Sam, Madeline.” He nods to each of them in turn before guiding me around the happy couple.

“Nice to meet you, too!” Madeline says, fluttering slim fingers.

“Absolutely,” Sam agrees. “See you around.”

Good God, I hope not, I think even as I echo, “See you.”

But I don’t want to see him. Ever. If I never see Sam’s sky-blue eyes, adorably shaggy mop of brown curls, or lean, athletic hiker’s body again, I’ll count myself a lucky woman. Being close to him is like looking at faded pictures from my childhood, except a thousand times worse.

Childhood is something that everyone has to mourn, no matter how rich or fabulous or lucky they are. We all have to let go of those innocent days when life held so many possibilities and the future was nothing but clean sheets of paper, a rainbow of sharply pointed pencils, and dreams enough to fill each page with unique and beautiful things.

But true love is different. True love is something that some people get to hold onto, a dream they get to keep dreaming without ever waking up.

“You okay?” Tanner asks softly.

“Fine,” I lie. “How did you know?”

“That Sam was your ex? The one who got away?” Tanner asks. When I nod, he continues, “You had that look on your face.”

“The ‘I just ran into someone I used to love and I want to throw up’ look?” I groan. “Great. And here I was hoping I’d managed to hide it.”

“You were fine. He looked uncomfortable, too.” He puts his arm around my shoulders, hugging me closer. “Madeline was the only one who wasn’t on the verge of losing her lunch. She seems nice. I mean, if you like that sort of woman.”

I glare up at him. “What sort? The sexy grown-up Disney princess with big boobs and a bigger brain and a relentlessly sunny disposition?”

His lips curve. “The sort that isn’t you, clearly the superior specimen in every way.”

I sigh, even as my heart starts plumping up with happiness again. “You’re such a liar. She’s beautiful and successful and seemingly very nice.”

“But she’s not a beach pixie. Once you’ve had one of those, I don’t see how you could ever be happy with anything else.”

I turn to face him under the awning of a French restaurant advertising crispy peppered lamb shoulder as the night’s special. “You don’t have to flatter me, Tanner. I’m fine. Sam and I have been broken up for a long time. It’s no big deal. It was just…unexpected, running into him like that. That’s all.”

“I’m not flattering you.” Tanner’s green eyes glitter with anger and something else I can’t quite pin down. “And Sam is a fuckwit idiot loser with stupid hair.”

My grin comes in fast and sudden, cracking through the tension tightening my jaw. “No, he isn’t. But thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He nods his head toward the restaurant. “French good?”

“French is lovely.” I push onto my toes to kiss his freshly shaved cheek. “Thank you, unicorn.”

“Unicorn cock, you mean,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist and drawing me closer.

I shake my head. “No, just unicorn. It’s more than your dick that’s special. You seem to be in possession of an encouraging, thoughtful, magical personality as well, you lucky bastard.”

He smiles, and his eyes dance mischievously in the fading evening light. “Why, Miss Daniels, that may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t let it go to your head. Either one of them,” I caution in my cranky old lady voice, the one I like to practice so I’ll be ready when I’m an ancient spinster yelling at the neighborhood kids to get off my lawn.

But Tanner only laughs and kisses me again, a long, panty-melting kiss that leaves me feeling grateful to the coed who stole my deposit and ran off to Mexico. What would I have done without this man?

This sexy, silly, sensitive man who makes me wish…

I don’t let the thought find its tail end. There’s no room for that kind of wishing in my life—seeing Sam has reminded me what it feels like to lose someone who makes you feel irreplaceable, how it guts you like a fresh kill to see the person you thought was your forever planning a life with someone else.

I don’t think I could survive that a second time. I know I couldn’t.

That’s why this has to stay sex and nothing more.

“We’re just fucking,” I whisper against Tanner’s lips. “Don’t take this too seriously, Muscle Boy.”

“Oh, shut up and get your ass inside.” Tanner slaps me softly on both ass cheeks, making my jaw drop.

“What was that for?” I ask indignantly.

“Let’s eat and toast your new job before you start reminding me not to fall in love with you, okay?” he says, reaching to open the door. “I’m hungry, and I want to be happy with you first.”

I cross my arms and scowl up at him. “Fine.”

He smiles. “You’re good to me.”

I duck into the restaurant beneath his arm, catching a glimpse of Sam and Madeline crossing the street at the end of the block. Madeline is motioning toward yet another fancy home goods store, while Sam presses a kiss to the top of her glossy head. The sight of it hurts, but it doesn’t hurt like a shriveled up raisin on a neglected kitchen floor.

In fact, it only aches softly, like a mostly-healed bruise.

And the reason for that muted ache is the man slipping into the restaurant behind me, his hand light at the small of my back, making me feel unreasonably adored.