Page 20 of The Fireman and the Flirt

Derek: I went to a party at that one. I think Mitch threw up in the front bushes.

Cary: And they’re still standing. Great landscaping!

I legitimately LOL’d, getting weird looks in the process from strangers.

Cary: Doesn’t vomit count as fertilizer?

Derek: I’m going to pass. I don’t want to think about what shenanigans went on in that house.

Cary: We can get it deep cleaned. I work with a cleaning service that are miracle workers.

Cary: Fine.

Derek: Sorry that I’m making this difficult.

Cary: You’re not difficult. You’re a challenge ??

Cary: I’m making a running list of things you say you like and don’t like. No to open concept. Yes to wood-burning fireplaces. No to puke-fertilized bushes.

There I went laughing to myself again like a crazy person.

Derek: Only when I know the person who puked in the bush.

Cary: Fair. Would you be up for seeing a house tomorrow? I can get us in early before the official open house. I have a good feeling about it.

I smiled at the phone, admiring Cary’s persistence and work effort. It was a 180 from my last experience working with a real estate agent.

Derek: Let’s do it.

I tucked my phone into my pocket and headed into Stone’s Throw Tavern, Mitch and Charlie’s bar, off the downtown strip. It had a hole-in-the-wall vibe but was nice enough for the suburbs. The spacious floor of the bar had floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river, and upstairs was a small loft space with Mitch’s office.

But this afternoon, I found Mitch at the bar talking with someone. His flannel shirt stretched across his back. I tapped his shoulder.

“Hey, I got a blast from the past for you.”

The man who turned around was not Mitch, although he looked disturbingly similar. His features were softer, his beard more of a stubble, and was he wearing makeup?

“Oh, sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

“Did you think I was Mitch?” The man’s eyes lit up. They were not dark menacing coals like my friend’s, but rather filled with sweetness and a desire for validation.

“Yeah. Is he around?”

“Allison!” He called out to a woman in a huddle by the high top tables. “Allison!”

She emerged from the group of people frazzled, mind elsewhere. “Yes?”

“This man thought I was Mitch!”

“Great,” she said with a fraction of his enthusiasm.

“Allison’s our director. Did I read appropriately small-town and surly to you? Did I look believable as someone who owned a bar?” The man studied my face for a response. His gregarious voice did not jive at all with his Mitch-esque appearance.

I didn’t know what rabbit hole he was taking me down, and I didn’t want to find out. “Is Mitch around?”

“I’m right here.” Mitch came up to our circle and let out a sigh that reminded me of when I’d get annoyed with toddler Jolene’s incessant questions.

Seeing Mitch and his doppelganger side by side was an odd sight. The man took note of Mitch’s gestures and tried imitating them. Around the bar, I noticed crew members and lighting equipment set up. It all began to make sense.

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