I check my hair in the mirror. It’s down to my shoulders, and a wavy mess. I haven’t thought about doing anything with it since the divorce was finalized. I cut it short then, because I thought a dramatic change would make me feel like a new person.

It didn’t.

I rub some coconut-scented oil lightly over a few frizzy strands. I threw some curlers in it after my shower; I don’t want to brush it, or the curls will fall.

I’m wearing a pale yellow sundress that shows just a peek of cleavage and ends a few inches above my knee. And the makeup—that’s for everyone else as much as it is for Tripp. Because I’m definitely going to see people I know.

One of the perils of going out in Longview: a significant number of my high school peer group still lives here. And these people are everywhere. I’ve spent the last six months pretty much not leaving my parents’ house, and I’ve still managed to see like twenty people I know from high school. They always have the same looks on their faces, too. It’s like their expressions get stuck somewhere between pity and fake enthusiasm.

And I can’t stand pity. That’s why I don’t go out—I can’t stand the looks these people give me.

Also, no one asks me out.

Except Tripp.

I’m still surprised. What I remember of our conversation today felt nice and easy. Good and comfortable. I was a little drunk, for sure, and I almost think it helped. It felt nice to just relax and…flirt.

I check my phone; my Lyft is six minutes away. Thank God Longview finally got Lyft. It was only a year and a half ago.

If Dad and Mom could see me now. They’ve been on my ass ever since I moved back to—

NO!

No, no, no, no. I did NOT move back home. I didn’t. I haven’t. I’m just…here for now. Just till the summer’s over. Just till I can figure things out.

And in the meantime, hey, look at me! I’m going out with a friend—a work colleague—although technically he’s my employer… Whatever. I’m going out, that’s the point. Living a life. Coping and dealing.

I rearrange my curls until my phone buzzes. My Lyft is here.

The driver’s a life-long Longview resident. We compare notes, but when it becomes obvious we don’t know any of the same people, he lapses into silence, and I into my anxiety.

Dinner at Salty’s seemed pretty straightforward a few hours ago when I was drunk on the beach. But now I’m not sure what we’re doing. I told Tripp it wasn’t a date, and he agreed, so I guess we’re just going out as friends. Which is a fine and normal thing people do. Why am I nervous?

Because you want his body.

Dammit—it’s the truth. The time since Kevin has been one of the longest dry spells I’ve ever had. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there’s a part of me that kind of wants to touch those ripped abs.

I wish I knew what Tripp was thinking when he asked me out. He can’t be hard up for company. Or sex. But he could have wanted it anyway. Sex, I mean. Maybe company. I don’t know.

There’s another possibility that keeps popping up in my head, and I’ve tried to avoid it so far, because it makes me burn with humiliation: maybe Tripp felt sorry for me. I told him my pitiful story about drinking alone at home, and he felt sorry for me, and invited me out. Impulsively. He could be regretting it right now.

Or not. I don’t need to do that. Project negative things.

The real, most likely reason that he wanted to get drinks with me, maybe dinner, is wanting to get to know me. Probably to see if he wanted to fuck me.

Do I want to fuck him?

That’s a pretty easy question to answer: yes.

Will I?

I don’t have time to figure that out—we’re here.

Salty’s Seafood Shack began as just a shack on the beach in the 1950s. Salty, whose real name I don’t remember, was some kind of high-ranking Naval officer in WWII. When the war ended, he moved to Longview, bought a boat, and started selling fish out of his shack. Eventually he added a small dining hall, and then a bigger one behind the smaller one, and after he died, his family added on even more. Salty’s is now a kind of hodgepodge shack mansion. It stretches and twists its way across two blocks of prime beachfront real estate, and finding your way from your table to the exit door is a rite of passage.

The food is…okay? I used to love it as a kid, but I didn’t know any better. Seattle will ruin you for crappy fried seafood forever. Everyone else in town still loves it, though. The parking lot is packed. Even the spillover lot is full. And the line is snaking out the door and around the building.

Perfect.

My Lyft lets me off near the door, and I text Tripp. “I’m here.”

“You look great,” he texts back.

I look up and see him standing maybe twenty feet in front of me, to the left of the line where it cuts right. He looks even better. He’s wearing a fitted, navy blue T-shirt with a pale blue stripe across the pecs, and khaki shorts that show off his deep-tanned, muscular legs. He’s getting tons of stares; I even hear someone murmur his name.

“It’s crazy crowded,” I observe.

“We’ve got a table waiting.”

“We do?”

Tripp winks and I laugh. “Did they get a special table set up just for you?”

“For us.” He grins.

I follow him inside. While it’s silly that he gets to cut to the front of the line, I’m maybe ten minutes from eating one of the many plump children waiting in said line, so I’m grateful. “You must think you’re a real VIP.”

Tripp shrugs. “I am kind of a big deal.”

I keep my eyes on his broad back. I’m pretty sure there are people I know in this line, but I refuse to look at faces. Just backs, and maybe profiles from the corner of my eye.

Everyone is looking at us—well, at Tripp. They aren’t screaming or fainting or fanning themselves—they aren’t even speaking to him or taking pictures. But I see them notice him. It happens like fifty times before we reach the hostess stand.

The hostess is pretty and tall, with long, honey hair and a nice smile. I don’t remember her name, but her face is familiar. She spares me a glance—appraising, and I can’t tell what her conclusion is—before focusing on Tripp.

“We have your table ready, Mr. Anders.”

Tripp gives me a mock-smug smile. I bite my lip so I don’t laugh, and we follow the hostess—whose name I still can’t remember—through the confusing twist of turns, halls, and dining spaces. Maybe fifteen years ago, management painted three different colored lines on the floor—blue, green, and yellow—to help people find their way around. We’re following the blue line through two small dining rooms and up a ramp that winds over the main dining hall and eventually brings us to an open-air rooftop dining space that serves as the restaurant’s unofficial VIP area.

Yes, Salty’s has a VIP area. I don’t recognize anyone, but they all recognize Tripp. He stops to greet a man in a black ball cap, and a slightly older couple sitting on the same side of a booth.

“This is weird,” I say when we finally sit at our table.

“Weird?” His brow rumples. “How?”

I glance around the room. “All these people looking at us.”

“It’s because you look so good in that dress.”

I roll my eyes, and he grins.

“The hostess was ready to hump you.”

“Hump? Bobby, I’ll have you know I’m not used to that kind of language.”

I lean forward. “She was going to hump you to hump day,” I hiss.

Tripp sits back and fans himself. “Bobby Smith!”

I laugh. “Hey, what was her name, anyway? I can’t remember.”

“The hostess? Jill Warner.”

“Oh, yeah.” She was a grade below me. She did something weird…

“She almost burned down the biology lab at the high school,” Tripp offers.

“That’s right.” I open my menu and try to ignore all the eyes I feel staring at us. It doesn’t help that our table is practically in the center of the space. I just need to remember that these people have no idea who I am. They don’t see some pathetic thirty-something divorcée living with her parents. All they see is Tripp.

“You’re weirded out.”

I peek over my menu and find Tripp frowning.

“We can leave.”

I shake my head. “No.”

“It should stop in a few minutes.”

“Oh, I hardly notice.”

He smiles. “Talking helps.”

“Does it?”

“It does. When was the last time you ate at Salty’s?”

“A few months ago. With my parents.”

It was more like half a year ago, just after I moved back. Dad thought Salty’s would cheer me up. All it did was send me scurrying to the bathroom all night.

“Don’t have the tuna melt,” I warn.

Tripp nods. “I’d advise against the crab tacos.”

“And the Squid Suckers.”

Tripp shudders. “Why that would even be on the menu…” he trails off, shaking his head.

“The old people love them.”

“Do they?” he asks.

I nod. “My parents get a plate every time they come.”

“Why?”

“I think it’s easy to eat.”

Tripp snorts. “There go we but for the grace of God.”

“No, there go we eventually.”

“That’s why I said the ‘but for the grace of God’ part.”

“The only alternative is to die young.”

“Fingers crossed,” he says.

“Then order the eel burger.”

“You can always tell when you’re out with a Longview girl.”

“Getting sick from Salty’s is one of the things that connects us all as Longviewians.”

“Through the ages.”

“Why do we still eat here?”

Tripp shrugs. “The beer’s cheap.”

“Oh, right.”

“And we think we’ve had every bad meal.”

“I feel like I have.” I scan the familiar list of entrees. “I think I know everything on the menu.”

“I don’t think it’s changed much in seventy years.”

“Except for the Freedom Fries.” They were added to the menu during the buildup to the war in Iraq. There’s a whole section: Chili Covered Freedom Fries; Freedom Fries Southwestern; Fish and Freedom Fries, etc.

“I always liked the Freedom Fire Fries,” Tripp says.

I wrinkle my nose. “I can’t have anything with jalapenos.”

“You can’t?”

“No.”

“No jalapeño poppers?”

I shake my head.

“What about grilled bacon jalapeño wraps?”

“Nope.”

“No mango jalapeño margaritas?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. You must really like jalapenos.”

Tripp shrugs. “Meh.” He fake peruses his menu while I stare at him.

“I think I’m gonna have the mahi-mahi,” he says after a minute. “What about you?”

“I don’t know.” I look at my menu then back at Tripp. He’s smiling. I shake my head so I won’t smile too. “I might go with the shrimp and grits. I don’t think even Salty’s could mess that up.”

Tripp nods. “Smart choice. Wanna start with some oysters?”

“Sure. Can you pass the drink menu?”

He does. “Have you tried Salty’s Swill?”

I scan the menu. “Is that one of Salty’s? What am I asking? Obviously. And no, I haven’t. Is it any good?” It’s hard to keep the skepticism out of my voice. I drank a lot of good beer in Seattle. “The name doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.”

“Surprisingly drinkable. It’s a lager. Pale. They get the water from Sunset Springs.”

At least it won’t taste like sulfur.

Our waitress arrives with two glasses of water and cheese biscuits. She’s curvy, with long brown hair down past her waist, and, shit, I think I—

“Bobby!” she exclaims. “Bobby Baker! Wait, no, Smith. Or maybe it is Baker again?”

I smile because what else am I going to do? “Smith.” What I’m going to do is, I’m going to cut you.

“It’s great to see you Nat,” Tripp interrupts my homicidal thoughts. “How are things?”

Natalie Crenshaw was a grade above me in high school. We were both on the soccer team. I liked her then.

“Tripp! It’s so good to see you again!” Natalie has completely turned to Tripp now. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m on a date,” he says, and I reflexively say, “It’s not a date.”

Tripp smiles, and Natalie looks between us with an expression of exaggerated confusion.

“I guess it’s not a date,” Tripp says, shrugging. “I don’t think Bobby likes me.”

“Well, there are plenty of girls who do,” Natalie says, and I have to use my hand to keep my jaw from dropping. That—that hussy!

“I like you okay,” I say through my teeth.

Tripp grins. “I think we’re ready to order.”

We order our food, our appetizer, and a pitcher of Salty’s Swill, and Natalie leaves.

I take a big bite of my biscuit and glare at Tripp.

“What?” he asks innocently.

I chew fast so I can tell him, but my bite was ambitious and there’s a lot of bread in here. I chew, chew some more, swallow, take a drink of water to wash it down, and finally demand, “Why did you say we were on a date?”

“Because we are.”

“We are not!” I hiss. “I told you that when I agreed to come.”

Tripp shrugs. “I guess I forgot.”

I keep glaring. Tripp says, “I feel like I should be offended.”

“Oh puh-lease.”

“I have to assume you’re embarrassed by me.” He sticks out his bottom lip. “That’s hurtful.”

I’m trying so hard not to roll my eyes at him right now. “It’s got nothing to do with that. And I think Natalie made it very clear she thinks you’re a prize.”

“She sure was nice, that Natalie.” Tripp turns in his seat, toward the stairs, as if he’s looking for her.

“She’s about to get her chance,” I warn, and Tripp turns back around, grinning.

“Is that any way to talk to a person you’re just out with for purely platonic reasons?”

I sigh. “I’m sorry, okay. I just—I don’t want everyone in town talking about me.”

Oops. I didn’t mean because of Tripp—necessarily. I mean, I didn’t mean that he has a reputation—although he does. But it’s not that. I just don’t want people talking about me, and there’s no way to be on a date with Tripp Anders without getting talked about.

Tripp nods. “Good thing you set the record straight.”

“It’s not like that,” I say. “And the whole effort was pointless. I’m sure Natalie is going to tell everyone whatever she wants.”

“Everyone?”

“You know how Longview is.”

“Let them talk.”

I narrow my eyes. “You might be used to it—”

“You never really get used to it,” he interrupts. “You learn to ignore it.”

“Then maybe you are used to ignoring it. But I’m not. And this is not a date.”

Tripp puts a hand over his heart and looks down at the table in a was that reminds me of Eeyore.

“It’s not. I’m just…not up for that level of scrutiny.”

He nods thoughtfully. “I could tell everyone you’re a prostitute.”

“Excuse me?”

“From Tampa.”

“You think that makes it better?!”

“Tampa Tammy.”

“That’s not funny.”

“I’m just trying to pick up the broken pieces of my ego.”

“By calling me a whore?”

Tripp grins like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Of course not. I would never. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you: that Tripp’s a good guy. An ally.”

“You’re the ally we need. Thank you.”

He puffs out his chest. “It’s about time I got some recognition.”

“Maybe we can organize a Tripp Anders Day. But oh wait, there already is one.”

Tripp groans, and I shake my head. “The burden of celebrity.”

“You have no idea,” he says.

“Is it a burden?”

“No. No. I’m obligated to say no.”

“But it is.”

“Not at all.”

“Just on Tripp Anders Day.”

“And anytime I want to do secret shit.”

“I didn’t think of that.” I don’t know what kind of “secret shit” Tripp is getting up to, but it would suck to never be anonymous. “Hey, are they still planning on building that statue of you downtown?”

Tripp sighs. “Yeah, that’s…something they want to do.”

“I take it you won’t be posing?”

“Definitely not.”

“You don’t want them to…build it?” I feel like the right word is “erect,” but obviously I’m not going to say that.

The twinkle in his eye tells me he didn’t miss my omission. “I don’t.”

“Can you tell them that?”

“I tried to. Believe me. But then Becky Duncan—the chamber president—started talking about local businesses and civic pride and shit, and…” Tripp shrugs, and while I’m trying not to laugh at his misery, Natalie returns with our oysters and beer. I pour myself half a mug and take a sip—not bad. I take a full drink, and I’m surprised.

“Does it pass inspection from our expert from Seattle?” Tripp asks.

“Hmmmm.” I stroke my chin and squint at my mug. “Drinkable.”

“Oh thank ye gods.” Tripp takes a long drink.

“You know what the gods have in common with Tripp Anders?”

He looks at me suspiciously. “What?”

“Statues in their honor.”

Tripp groans.

“You really hate it?”

“Of course I do,” he hisses. “It’s embarrassing. You’ve seen the model, right?”

I shake my head, and Tripp looks relieved. “Good. It’s…humiliating.”

“Aw, I bet it’s not.” I pull my phone out of my purse, and Tripp frowns.

“What are you doing?”

“I wanna see.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Bobby, no.”

“Tripp, yes.” I’ve already got Google up. I search “Tripp Anders statue Longview Florida” and the first link takes me to—

I glance at Tripp. He’s watching me, waiting for my reaction. I’m trying so hard not to laugh. “It’s…” Hilarious. The model depicts Tripp a few years younger than he is now. They actually did a decent job with his face, except for his mouth; his smirk is full Zack Morris. He’s standing with his surfboard tucked under his right arm, in trunks, sunglasses over his eyes, with his left hand extended into some sort of interpretation of the shaka sign, except the fingers are bent at the wrong angles. “It’s nice.” He looks like Poochie, from The Simpsons. I want to tell him that, but he might not know who Poochie is.

“It looks ridiculous,” he says.

I rub my lips so I won’t laugh. “You should just tell them no.”

“I can’t.”

“You should.” I try for a serious face but ruin it with a giggle.

“I—” Tripp takes a deep breath. “I already donated money.”

I lose all control and belly laugh. “So when you say you don’t want it, what you really mean is you desperately need it.”

“Nooooo,” he groans. “It was fucking Becky Duncan again. ‘Tripp, can you please donate, we need it for the children.’”

“Did she really say it was for the children?” I snicker.

Tripp glowers. “She might as well have.”

“Well, at least it looks like you. Except for the hand. And the mouth.”

“I look like Poochie.”

“You do!” I laugh. “I mean—”

“Don’t pretend like you didn’t just agree with me.”

I take another long drink from my beer. “So I guess this must be one of those burdens of celebrity.”

“The worst one.”

“Do you even notice people’s reactions to you anymore?”

Tripp shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s like…seeing something in your periphery twenty-four seven and forcing yourself to ignore it.”

“That sounds exhausting,” I say.

“What does it feel like for you?”

“To have all these people watching us?”

“To bask in my glow.”

I fan myself. “Almost too hot.”

Trip’s smile is all teeth. “It’s gonna get hotter.”

“You wish.” I’m fanning myself for real this time. He’s even prettier with that lecherous grin on his face. I take a drink, and Tripp nods approvingly.

“Drink up.”

I have to cover my mouth to keep from spitting out my beer. I swallow it with some difficulty and laugh. “Is that your not-so-secret plan? To get me drunk?”

“Nah. I’ll let you get yourself drunk.”

“Good luck with that,” I say, and I take a big drink.

He laughs, and I laugh, and…this is fun. I scoop out an oyster. “Is there anything good about being famous?”

“I’m not famous.”

“You’re Longview famous.”

“That’s like being Longview rich.”

“But aren’t you rich?”

“Is this date over if I say ‘no?’”

I shake my finger at him. “It’s not a date.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

He shrugs. “Fine.”

“Good.” I put the oyster in my mouth.

“Swell.”

I swallow the oyster. “Famous.”

“Great.”

“No, I mean you are famous.”

“I’m a well-known member of the community.”

I snort. “I guess you aren’t that famous.”

“Well-known enough to get us the hottest seat in town.” He motions to the room, and like three people look up to see what he’s doing.

“I know. The VIP deck. I’ve never been here before.”

Tripp winks. “You’ve never been with a VIP before.”

Natalie shows up with our food, and I’m so hungry I don’t even think about making conversation until my plate’s half gone. Fortunately Tripp’s appetite matches mine. Even though this is not a date—it’s not—I’m feeling some of my old dating anxiety now that I’ve taken the edge off my appetite. Specifically, I never liked my dates to see me eat. No one looks good putting food in their mouth, unless it’s some kind of chocolate covered strawberry in a porn or something.

“So how is it?” Tripp asks, and I make eye contact with him just as I’m stuffing my face with a forkful of shrimp and grits. I put my left hand in front of my mouth, say, “It’s great,” and try to chew as non-obviously as possible. “Is your mahi-mahi good?”

I glance at him. He looks at me, holds his left hand over his mouth, and says, “Yes.” He puts the hand down, giving me a teasing smile.

“My mouth was full. I was being this thing called polite. Look it up,” I say.

He chuckles. “I didn’t realize I was out with a real lady.”

“It’s time you did. I’m not like those girls you’re always posting selfies with.”

Tripp smiles. “You’ve been looking at my selfies?”

Oh shit, I’m caught. I smile. “Just a few. I was curious.”

“I tried to look you up,” Tripp admits. “You’re nowhere. It’s impressive.”

“Impressive?” I feign surprise. “Me?”

“Believe it or not.”

“I don’t.”

Tripp nods while he chews his food. He swallows, says, “Your ex was everywhere. Kevin.” Tripp says his name like he’s saying “shit sandwich.” I approve. “He seems like a loser.”

I take a drink.

“His name is Kevin, so, you know.” Tripp shakes his head.

I lower my mug, wipe my mouth. Despite the sensitive subject, I feel compelled to ask, “Know what?”

Tripp shrugs. “I just don’t fuck with Kevins. People named Kevin.”

“You have nothing to do with them?” I ask.

Tripp nods.

“But why?”

“Just something about people with the name Kevin.”

“What are you talking about?”

Tripp chews his food thoughtfully. He rubs his chin. He says “hmmmm” a few times. Finally, he asks, “Off the top of your head, who are the most famous Kevins?”

“You mean celebrities?”

“Yeah. Or just famous people named Kevin. Could be politicians or historical figures or whoever.”

“Okay. Um, Kevin Bacon. Kevin Spacey.” Oh. “Kevin…Federline?” This isn’t looking good for Kevins. “Kevin Hart. Um, let’s see…”

“That’s a good number of Kevins,” he says. “You want to know the five most famous Kevins in the world, based on my research?”

“So this is scientific.”

“Of course,” he says.

“What’s your methodology?”

“I’ve surveyed hundreds of people across the globe.”

“That’s a big sample size.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Really?” I shake my head.

Tripp snickers. “The five most famous Kevins are…” He holds up one finger. “Kevin Bacon.” He holds up a second finger. “Kevin Spacey.” A third. “Kevin Hart.” A fourth. “Kevin Federline.” A fifth. “Kevin Durant.” Tripp holds up his other hand to lift a sixth finger. “Kevin Costner is the sixth and only alternate on the five most famous Kevins list.”

I nod. “That seems like a good list, but is Kevin Bacon really the most famous Kevin?”

“According to our research.”

“What about the seventh most famous Kevin?”

“There are no more famous Kevins.”

“That can’t be right.”

“Not famous enough to list.”

“Fine. But that list doesn’t seem too bad.”

“What?” Tripp shakes his head. “That’s a terrible list. Kevin Spacey is a monster. Even if Federline went to college and became a brain surgeon, he’d still just be Brittney Spears’ ex. Kevin Hart’s cheating on everybody. Kevin Bacon…I don’t know anything about him, honestly, except he’s too ugly to be in movies—”

Tripp stops because I’m laughing into my hand. He gives me a no-nonsense look.

“Kevin Durant is possibly the only Kevin on this list currently who hasn’t fucked up and is in his prime. He’s one of the best basketball players in the NBA. But I don’t know what kind of person he is. Maybe he’s an asshole. And his name is Kevin, so probably.”

“What’s wrong with Kevin Costner?”

“I don’t know about personally. But have you seen Waterworld?”

“And therefore all Kevins suck? It makes perfect sense.” I roll my eyes.

“I didn’t say all Kevins suck.”

“You so did,” I say.

“I complimented Kevin Durant on his game.”

“And then said he was an asshole.”

“Probably an asshole.”

“Oh okay.” I can’t help laughing.

“I’m sure he’s a super guy. And I was exaggerating about Kevins. Most Kevins are fine, normal people. Red-blooded Americans. However, I also believe that in a random sampling of Kevins, there would be a higher incidence of assholery than there might be with, say, a sampling of Jims.”

I snort. “I appreciate that this is all scientific.”

“And truly successful people,” Tripp continues, “like Fortune 500 CEOs, or brain surgeons, or governors, or whoever—those type of careers and personalities will be underrepresented in a random sampling of Kevins.”

“But how can you be sure? There are thousands—maybe millions—of Kevins in the world.”

Tripp sets his mug on the table hard. “There are four famous Chrises in the Marvel movies. More famous than any of the Kevins, and that’s just in the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Except Chris Pine was in DC, but, ah, my point still stands.”

“Maybe Kevin’s a really new name or something, you know. Chris has been around in some form for centuries.”

Tripp shakes his head. “Just think about it. Really think about Kevins.”

“I think I’ll pass on that.” I feel his eyes on me as I pick up a biscuit and take a bite.

“That bad, huh?”

Chewing, I nod. Out of nowhere, I feel a wave of sadness, such that I almost can’t even look at Tripp. But I do. Since I stupidly made my stupid comment, I’ve got to say something. I shake my head, struggling to find the words. “I really thought…” I shake my head. I thought things in my marriage were good. Okay, maybe not good, but normal. I let out a heavy sigh, and take a swallow of my beer. “Things don’t happen the way you think they will sometimes. Buuuut I’m being a Debbie Downer. Sorry.”

“Nah.” He lifts his glass to clink with mine. “No worries. That’s what they make beer for.” He winks, giving me a smile that’s kind and just a little sad. “To better company,” he says.

“To better company. And better names.”