Where Ill Be
Nora
Closing time. Last customer gone, chairs up, the floor half-mopped. Somewhere in the back, Marcy’s using that lemon cleaner she swears by, and under the hum of the cooler, the street outside has gone quiet the way it does after six.
The bell over the door rings anyway.
I know it's him before I look up. Same boots. Same quiet way he fills a doorway—broad enough through the shoulders that the frame looks built a size too small for him, auburn hair a little too long, ink climbing out from under his collar that I've never let myself get close enough to actually read.
"We're closed."
"Didn't come for coffee."
I set the mop against the counter. Cross my arms. "Then what."
He doesn't waste time circling it. "I like you. Not hiding that. Question is what you're gonna do about it."
Direct. No games. I hate how much I respect that.
Butch used to circle a thing for a week before he'd say it plain—testing the water, softening the ground, making sure agreeing felt like my own idea by the time he finally asked outright.
This man just says the thing and stands there while I decide what to do with it. There's danger in that kind of honesty. It gets under a woman's guard faster than any amount of charm could.
Something low in me answers before I can stop it—a pull, sharp and unwelcome, like my body's already decided something my head hasn't agreed to.
I press my arms tighter across my chest. "I can't do this."
"Do what."
"This." I gesture at him. The cut. The patch I'd recognize blindfolded. "I buried a man wearing one of those. I'm not doing it again."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't apologize for the patch either. "I'm not him."
"You're all him. Every single one of you."
"Maybe. Maybe not." He doesn't argue the point. "I'm not asking you to forget your husband. Not asking you to forget anything."
"Then what are you asking?"
"Nothing yet." He says it nice and easy. "Wanted you to know where I stand."
"I don't even know your name." It comes out before I've decided to say it, months overdue. "Rose gave you one. I never bothered correcting her."
"Leatherman's growing on me."
"That's not a name. That's a warning label."
"Real one's worse. Earned this one instead."
"So tell me the warning label, at least."
"Fuse."
I wait for the rest of it. He doesn't offer any.
"That's it? Fuse?"
"That's it."
"Because your fuse is short or long?"
"Long. Real long." Emotion flickers behind it, gone almost before I catch it. "Ask anybody who's made the mistake of thinking otherwise. Takes a while to get there. Not much left standing once I do."
"Comforting."
"Wasn't going for comforting."
"Why do you let a five-year-old call you Leatherman instead of just telling her your actual name?"
"Let's just say my mother did me no favors." The corner of his mouth moves. "I'll keep the government-issued version under my cut a little longer."
The way he says it isn't smug. It sounds... embarrassed. I wasn't exactly racing to tell him my middle name was Edith either. Some names just never fit the person wearing them.
Instead of forcing the issue, I ask, "That's it? You drove over here to tell me you like me and then what, you walk out?"
"Wasn't planning on asking you to dinner, if that's what you're worried about."
"I'm not worried."
"Sure you're not." The corner of his mouth moves. Almost a smile. "There's a street dance Friday. Whole town shows up. Bishop's running the grill, Crew's wife is doing some kind of pie contest."
"Is this you asking me out?"
"This is me telling you where I'll be." He shrugs, easy, like none of this matters to him either way. "Come if you want. Don't if you don't."
No pressure in it. No hook. An open door and his back already halfway to it.
"And if I don't show?"
"Then I eat a funnel cake alone and live to tell about it."
That gets a laugh out of me before I can stop it. Small, but real, and his eyes catch on it.
"Have a good night, Nora."
He's gone before I can decide whether to call him back.
I stand there a second, staring at the door he just walked through. The bell's still swinging on its little brass arm.
Marcy comes out from the back with the trash bags, takes one look at my face, and doesn't say a word. Doesn't have to.
"Don't," I tell her anyway.
"Wasn't gonna say anything."
"You were thinking it."
"I'm always thinking it." She hauls the bags toward the back door. "Doesn't mean I have to say it out loud."
Ten minutes later, I lock up in silence. Stack the last of the chairs. The mop bucket's gone cold and gray in the corner, and I dump it out slower than I need to, in no hurry to be alone with my own head.
Rose is at my mother's tonight. That means I have exactly nobody to talk this through with except myself, and myself isn't being helpful.
A street dance. Public. Loud. Easy to leave whenever I want.
He didn't ask me to commit to anything. Didn't push, didn't corner me, didn't make saying no cost me anything.
Butch would've circled back to it all night. Not cruel—never cruel, that was the trap of it—just steady, the same question rephrased three different ways over dinner, over dishes, over the drive home, until agreeing was easier than holding the line one more time.
I remember the exact kitchen we were standing in the night I gave in about moving in together, the water still running in the sink, him waiting with that patient half-smile he always used instead of pressure, and me nodding just to make the waiting stop.
This man hands me an open door and walks away without checking to see if I take it.
I pull out my phone. Text my mother before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Can you watch Rose Friday night? Need a few hours.
She responds in under a minute, because she always does, because she's been waiting three years for me to ask for exactly this.
Mom: Of course. Going somewhere fun?
I stare at the question longer than it deserves.
Me: The street dance in town.
Mom: With anyone special?
I don't answer that one. Send a thumbs up and shove the phone back in my apron pocket.
Friday. Five days out.
Long enough to talk myself out of it a dozen times. Not long enough, apparently, to stop already picturing his face when I show up.
I tell myself I'm only going for the funnel cake.
I don't believe myself for a second.