Page 42 of The Maine Event

“No!” he blurts. “I mean, I’m asking if you’d like to go out for a drink. I don’t know. You’re welcome to hang out here, I just thought?—”

“Only if I get to pick the playlist in the car.”

He barks out a laugh, giving me a sideways glance. “Fine. But if I hear any Top 40 pop nonsense, I’m leaving you on the side of the road to fend for yourself.”

Dan unlocks the car with a chirp, and as we slide into the front seats, he glances over at me. “Alright. Your choice ofplaylist, right? Just remember, this truck doesn’t respond well to auto-tuned heartbreak anthems.”

I smirk, scrolling through my phone. “Relax. I won’t make you suffer throughTaylor’s Versiontonight. How do you feel about a bit of Arctic Monkeys?”

He nods in approval. “Okay, you’ve bought yourself five minutes of respect.”

“Five? That’s it?” I laugh. “Tough crowd.”

The drive winds gently along the riverbank, the sky streaked with the colors of sunset—pink bleeding into indigo, with hints of gold flickering through the trees. There’s a peacefulness to it, the kind you don’t really get in the city. I lap it up.

Dan’s hand rests lazily on the wheel, the other drumming lightly on the door in time with the music. “You know,” he says, “it’s weird not having Chloe in the back seat giving me grief about my driving. Or asking why the moon’s following us.”

“She’s a smart kid,” I say. “And very persuasive. The lights-out-at-nine promise was impressive.”

He laughs. “She’s a force of nature. But I still second-guessed it. I worry she’ll wake up scared or miss home, or… I don’t know. I probably overthink everything.”

“You do,” I say lightly, then catch myself. “But that’s not a bad thing. I mean, sure, maybe you’re a bit overprotective?—”

“Oh, thanks.”

“—but it’s only because you care so much. She’s your whole world. And that’s… kind of beautiful.”

He goes quiet for a beat. “I just want her to have something solid, you know? Something reliable. Not like… here one day, gone the next.”

I nod, watching the trees blur past the window. “She’s lucky, Dan. She really is.”

It takes me a moment to realize I’ve fallen quiet, and he glances over. “What?”

I shake my head, offering a small smile. “Nothing. Just… wishing I’d had a dad like you.”

He doesn’t say anything, but I see his knuckles tighten slightly on the wheel, and he casts me a quick look of something almost like sympathy.

“Was he… not around?” he asks gently.

“Nope,” I say, my voice light but clipped. “Died in an industrial accident. Mum was left with two of us under six.”

Dan winces. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t push further, just nods, and turns the music up a notch. We let the song fill the silence.

But I feel it settle inside me—this strange mix of longing and admiration. Watching Dan with Chloe over the past few days, the way he listens to her, makes her laugh, sees her—really sees her—it’s something I never experienced myself. And it stirs something I didn’t expect. Not envy exactly. More like… hope. That it’s possible. That men like that exist. That love can look like that.

As we pull into the gravel lot outside the bar, Dan throws me a sidelong glance. “Just so we’re clear,” he says, “if you order anything with a little umbrella in it, I’m going to mock you relentlessly.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” I shoot back. “I’m from Chicago remember, not one of you flaky actor types.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see about that.”

The bar turns out to be a welcoming, slightly nautical spot decorated with old lobster traps and faded maritime flags. It smells like cedar and salt, and the playlist is all early-2010s indie—Foster the People, The Lumineers, a little early Florence.

We grab a booth tucked into the corner, half-shielded by a tall wooden partition. Dan orders for us—two gin and tonics—then looks at me with a smirk.

“Unless you’re the type who’ll switch it up and demand an oat milk espresso martini?”

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