18. Paige
18
Paige
S taying in this small town isn’t what I had in mind.
I should be lighting a fire and sitting in my cozy chair with a glass of wine in one hand and my book in another while at the bougie campground I booked in Missoula to celebrate the fact I made it that far.
Goodbye complimentary outdoor gas fireplace and golf cart.
Instead, I found a campground in Wallace, Idaho, on the outskirts of town with a coin-operated shower and a babbling creek through the middle of it—emphasis on the babble . It’s small and peaceful and better than a grocery store parking lot, which was my second option.
After the tire debacle, I stopped here to get it fixed, only to realize they were already closed…two minutes before I arrived. The man closing up shop told me he had to leave for his kid’s soccer game and couldn’t stay, but he’d get to me first thing in the morning.
With it starting to get dark out, I decided to stay the night, canceling tonight’s reservation in Missoula for…nature. And lots of it since this campground is tucked into the side of the mountain. I’ll still get to stay at the bougie place tomorrow night, but for now, this one will have to do.
I’m starving, and after my day, I’m ready for anywhere that sells beer.
I never drink beer, but tonight, I do.
The benefit of my lodging is everything is within walking distance. So, I grabbed my purse and headed into the center of the tree-lined streets. There are quite a few restaurants here in the middle of the mountains, with the freeway overpass going directly over a portion of this tiny town.
A pub on the corner looks promising with its doors swung wide, music and booming laughter drifting out into the night air. There’s a touch of chill tonight thanks to the peaks surrounding us, blocking the last bits of the sun’s warmth. Who knew this place even existed with its cute shops, single grocery store, and four-way stops in lieu of stoplights?
I almost didn’t believe there was a mechanic shop here when I looked it up on my phone map. The mountains turned into more mountains the further I drove, winding and dipping enough to force my eyes to stay on the road at all times.
I gave Cleo her food before talking to the man at the shop earlier, along with a few treats—courtesy of her second favorite person. She’ll be fine for a while. And I will be, too, once I get a beer and some food. The adrenaline has worn off, and I feel a little like a limp noodle.
Walking inside, there’s a hostess stand, which really seems like more of a suggestion since the couple who enters behind me passes straight by it to head for the bar. So, I follow them as if we’re all together in case I get in trouble for seating myself. There are quite a few people in here for it being seven o’clock on a Wednesday, but I’m able to find a spot further down the bar.
It isn’t as loud now that I’m in here. The music plays at a reasonable volume, and the ambiance is unique, with oil cans as lampshades hanging above the bartop and a wall of mirrors behind the liquor bottles. Luckily, everyone here is dressed casually. I don’t think I stand out too much in my jean shorts, tank top with dainty flowers on it, and dirt smudges on my arms and legs from changing my tire.
I take that back.
They aren’t this casual.
My bare legs stick to the red leather barstools as I look through the menu. The woman behind the bar approaches with water and a smile. “You visiting?”
I drop the menu with a thwack and sigh, looking every bit as exhausted as I feel, I’m sure. “Is it really obvious?”
Her hair is a deep, auburn color with strands of gray sprinkled throughout and caught in two braids hanging past her shoulders. Her T-shirt and jeans give her a normal vibe, making her instantly likable. That and the small but friendly smile she wears.
She scratches her cheek. “You’ve got a smudge.”
I lift my hand to wipe at the spot on my face. “Of course I do.” Snagging a napkin, I dip it in my water and wipe my entire cheek, hoping I’ll get it. She doesn’t seem to mind my lack of manners. I’m sure working at a bar means she’s seen worse. “I had a flat tire and had to change it on the interstate. I’ve never done it before, so it took a couple of hours. I’m starving and need a beer. Whatever you suggest.”
I smile in case my exhaustion makes me sound rude.
She nods, hand splayed wide while propped on the bar's edge. “I’ll bring two drinks.”
“I only need one.”
“Oh. No,” she says and points at the draft beers. “I’m getting one for you and me. It’s my break. I’ll bring some of the chicken wings, too. Figure you’ve got a story to tell and need an ear to listen.”
I guess it would be nice to talk to someone. Cleo sure got an earful on the drive here; I bet she’s glad to get a break and leave the listening to someone else.
“I’m Nelly.” She slides an ice-cold beer across the bartop minutes later. “It’s local. Not too bad.”
“Paige.” We clink glasses, then I chug half of mine, dribbling a little down my chin.
She smiles behind the rim of her frosted glass cup. “Where you from?”
“Tacoma, Washington.”
“Where ya headed?”
“Montana, then Yellowstone.”
She nods. “Lots of folks like you heading to the park this time of year. I meet a few every day.”
“Really?”
She nods and sets her beer down in front of her, gripping the edges of the counter. “Everyone wants a piece of that national park in some way or another.”
“It’s my first time,” I say, painting smooth lines along the side of my glass. “I’m on a…journey.”
It still sounds ridiculous to say it out loud, but I don’t stop there. Nope. Instead, I give her all the gory details, including the descriptive and far too spicy dream I had about Rhodes, the kiss we shared in the parking lot, and The Itch that won’t go away.
Cue me offering far too much information, per usual.
She said she wanted to listen.
“The further I get, the more I think this trip was just meant for me to find out what I want to do with my life,” I explain. “And I want to figure myself out, too, because Rhodes is the best man I’ve ever known. He has his own place, a job he’s passionate about, a 401k, and a sizable savings account. I have a cat.”
“So, what do you want to do with your life?” Nelly asks, sipping her brew.
I furrow my brows, concentrating on a large knick in the glossy wood in front of me. “Well, I should probably decide on a career. I’ve changed jobs too many times to count.”
“What kind of jobs?”
I tick them off on my finger. “Tupperware sales, pet psychic hotline, too many craft businesses to name individually, and most recently, working at Upstairs Closet Thrift.”
“And you didn’t like any of those?”
I shrug. “Not enough to continue working there forever.”
Except for Upstairs Closet Thrift, which was the first job that actually felt like it was a good fit. My schedule was flexible, often changing week to week, and the days were always different. Whether I was sorting and working the floor, rotating new inventory, and experiencing peculiar personalities who came through the doors were always entertaining. I loved it.
Maybe quitting was a rash decision. But my old boss, Don, had to go and inspire me to take some time to be on my own and decide what I really wanted.
So, I did that.
To the extreme, but still.
She waves me off and stands straighter. “Okay, someone has to tell you.”
“Tell me what?” I cradle my beer glass, looking on and waiting.
“Do you know how many jobs I’ve had over the years? I’m sixty.”
Sixty ? I wouldn’t have guessed.
I shake my head and throw out a guess. “Seven?”
“Twenty-three.” Her piercing gaze is serious and unwavering. “Jobs come and go. They change like the weather. You can’t tie your self-worth to a job.” She points at her chest roughly. “You have to find that inside yourself.”
I can’t hold her stare any longer and peer down at my near-empty glass. There’s an understanding inside me that says she’s right, even if I’m still trying to sort that out in my head.
“So, what makes you happy?”
I blow a stray strand of hair out of my face. “Men,” I answer honestly. “Men make me happy.”
“Honey, there isn’t a man who can do as good a job as you when it comes to happiness.” She levels a knowing glare at me. “Come on, now. What are some things you love? The things you spend your time thinking about, and the ones that excite you?”
I wasn’t lying when I said men, though I’m starting to realize maybe this is one of my problems. Getting tied up in someone else makes it difficult to let myself shine.
“Um…” I bounce my knee. “I love to sew, animals, interior design…”
“Now take your skills and what you love and do more of those. It doesn’t need to be complicated.” Before I can answer, she pushes off the bar suddenly. “Break’s over, and it looks like we’ve got a few new customers.”
I peer toward the entrance to see a large group coming through, rowdy and yelling in jest over the music.
“Wash up over there,” Nelly points at a sink near the kitchen doors, “and come help me.”
I stare blankly at her. “What?”
“Do you see anyone else around here?” She waves behind the bar area, and she’s right; no one else is there.
When she said she was taking a break, I assumed there would be someone to cover for her. Guess not.
I blink rapidly a few more beats, then determine she isn’t screwing with me. I stand and round the bar to do exactly as she says, even though I’ve never mixed a drink before in my life.
“YOU’RE A NATURAL.”
“I don’t know about that.” I pull the draft lever, tipping the glass enough to avoid getting too much foam while also getting a good pour, just like Nelly said to do.
We’ve been at this for at least an hour, but I’ve honestly lost track of time, and this bar doesn’t have a clock anywhere. The rowdy group eventually left when Nelly told them to walk home and go to bed. They complained, but only for a short spell since she threatened to call their wives and families to pick them up. That got them out the doors and walking real fast.
I slide the beer across the bartop to an older gentleman and wipe my hands on a towel while Nelly leans her forearms beside me. “You jumped in without any notice and figured things out. I barely had to tell you what to do.”
“It helps that no one ordered anything complicated. Beer, wine, and whiskey on the rocks are easy to handle.”
Nelly squints at me. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. Not everyone can do that. You’re pretty flexible, you know. That’s a hard skill to teach just anyone.”
I drop the towel and lean my hip against the bar to face her. “Was this all part of your lesson to show me I’ve got something to offer and I’m not a washed-up thirty-year-old?”
She leans into one elbow and shrugs. “Did it work?”
The corner of my mouth lifting gives me away. “Maybe. I guess I am pretty flexible. I really enjoyed this tonight. I felt…useful.”
“Well, you aren’t useless just because you’re not doing what you love right now. Just remember it’s important to enjoy your job, too.” She twirls a finger. “Why do you think I work here? I like the people, the conversations, and being a forward-facing part of the community.”
I nod and meet her eyes. “I guess I was worried the thrift store wasn’t a grown-up job, and maybe I couldn’t settle down because I’m not really a grown-up. I barely made enough to afford rent.”
“Fair. But the secret to being a grown-up,” she says, “is realizing you don’t need anything external to fulfill you, but maybe you want it. Even the billionaires aren't immune from unhappiness.”
There aren’t a lot of times I’ve found myself in a bar on a random Wednesday, talking to a woman my mother’s age, who has completely upended what I thought. But this wouldn’t have been possible unless I said fuck it and left my bubble.
“I think I get it,” I say. “So I just have to figure out how to be fulfilled inside myself and then go after what I want.”
“Yes.” She nods once.
I stand straighter, looking around the bar with renewed vigor, until I realize one more thing. A BIG thing. One that feels critical to actually being able to understand this new concept.
“How do I do that?”