Page 142 of The Lineman

Making what permanent?I thought.Oh shit, is he going somewhere with this? Was this weekend getaway about more than fresh air and sunsets?

I didn’t answer immediately.

Unsure which question he had asked, I said, “Maybe.”

In truth? I had thought about it, about what it would be like to stay, to have a place like this, to wake up and make coffee while Homer stretched lazily on the porch, to know that this—thisquiet, this warmth . . . Mike—wasn’t just temporary.

And that scared the hell out of me.

“I love the mountains. The idea of living up here is so, I don’t know, romantic . . . but not in a romance novel sort of way. It’s the thought of being unplugged, disconnected, part of the world yet separate from it. Everything back home gets so twisted and crazy, but up here, it’s all quiet and peaceful and serene.”

Oh, he had been talking about the cabin.For some reason, my chest deflated.

Mike hummed.

Then, almost casually, he reached out—his fingers barely brushing mine against the railing.

I exhaled and let myself hold on.

The moment the sun’s last rays vanished, Mike turned toward the cabin. “Time to find something to eat. I’m starving.”

On cue, my stomach growled.

Mike laughed. “Come on, big boy, let’s feed you, too.”

I gave him a sheepish grin and let him lead me through the cabin to the car.

We drove up and down and around one mountain, then another. I’d begun wondering if we were crossing state lines for this meal when a small town—a village, really—opened up before us.

By the time we made it into town proper—and I was using that word loosely—I was beginning to question whether we had taken a wrong turn and accidentally ended up in some kind of time loop.

“Town” consisted of exactly four buildings clustered around a rusted old monument of a guy on a horse, the name on the plaque so weathered I had no idea who he was or what he had done. Judging by the peeling paint and the distinct lack of any other people, I suspected that nothing much had changed here in about seventy-five years.

Mike parked the car in front of what was, allegedly, the best restaurant in town. I wondered if it was the only restaurant the place had to offer. It was a squat little diner that looked like it had been built sometime around the fall of Rome and not updated since.

“Jesus,” I muttered, staring at the flickering neon EATS sign in the window. “Is this thing structurally sound?”

Mike shrugged. “Guess we’re about to find out.”

The second we stepped over the threshold, it was like entering a different dimension.

The air smelled of grease, butter, and something distinctly fried, which was already a good sign. The booths were covered in old red vinyl cushions, the kind that always stuck to the back of your legs in the summer. The only lighting was a buzzing fluorescent fixture overhead. The floors had that faint stickiness that only came from a long history of good food and questionable health codes.

And then—

“Well, well, well!”

The voice came before the person, loud and commanding, as a woman emerged from behind the counter like she had been summoned through some sort of ritual involving salt, lines drawn in blood, and ancient words.

She was tall and imposing, her bleach-blond hair piled high on her head in an elaborate updo that defied gravity. Her uniform—a pink waitress dress straight out of the 1950s—was covered in various pins, including one that said, “HOTTER THAN YOUR WIFE,” and another that said, “YES, THEY’RE REAL (MY NAILS, OBVIOUSLY).” Her name tag, a faded pink plastic thing with white lettering, read, “Gina.”

It was absolutely impossible to guess her age—and frankly, I was afraid to try.

The woman put both hands on her hips and gave us a slow once-over, eyes sharp and knowing.

“Well, ain’t you two a sight,” she said, smacking her gum and eyeing me like I was a steak she meant to serve. “City boys lost in the woods? Or just looking for trouble?”

Mike and I shared a look.

---