Page 43 of The Maine Event

I arch a brow. “Please. What do you take me for? I’m from Chicago. I only do oat milk martinis on long-haul flights or after breakups.”

He laughs, low and warm, and I realize this is the most relaxed I’ve seen him.

The drinks arrive, sweating gently in their glasses. We clink.

“To surprise nights off,” I offer.

“And responsible parenting via sleepovers,” he adds.

We settle in, the buzz of conversation around us humming pleasantly in the background.

“So,” he says, leaning in slightly, “tell me something about you that isn’t on LinkedIn.”

I blink. “That’s a very PR way of asking for secrets.”

“Guilty. Come on. Something random. Embarrassing. Like… you used to think narwhals weren’t real, or you were in a serious fan club for a boy band.”

I smirk. “Easy. I used to write fanfiction for the Powerpuff Girls. Blossoms and heartbreak and dramatic monologues. Eight-year-old me had range.”

Dan bursts out laughing. “Wow. I was not ready for that. Powerpuff Girls? That’s intense. Which one were you?”

“Bubbles, obviously. But with Blossom’s hair accessories.”

He places a hand over his heart. “This is the greatest confession I’ve ever heard in a bar.”

“Your turn,” I say, pointing my straw at him. Dan leans back in the booth, a crooked grin playing on his lips. “Alright, my first celebrity crush was Avril Lavigne.”

I raise my brows. “Sk8er Boi Avril?”

“The one and only.” He shrugs, not even pretending to be embarrassed. “The tie, the eyeliner, the whole ‘don’t care whatyou think’ vibe? It was a full-blown obsession. I may or may not have tried to learn guitar to impress no one in particular.”

I burst out laughing. “Please tell me there’s photographic evidence.”

“There is. And it’s buried deep where no one will ever find it.”

“Tragic. The world deserves to see Dan-the-pop-punk-phase.”

“You laugh now, but I nailed the ‘brooding in a hoodie’ look. Some say I peaked in 2004.”

“Some being you?”

“Obviously.”

We fall into a rhythm after that—exchanging stories, teasing each other about our teenage music tastes, bad fashion choices, our favorite childhood snacks. He tells me about the time he accidentally locked himself out of a theater in full costume and had to scale a fire escape in tights. I tell him about a college pitch meeting where I used the word ‘disruption’ so many times I gave myself a migraine.

The laughter comes easy, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.

But it’s not just funny. It’s comfortable.

Dan listens—not just waits to talk, but actually listens. He asks follow-up questions. Smiles in all the right places. Like he’s paying attention to more than just the words.

And I realize, somewhere in the middle of all this, that I’m not used to being this seen. Not without being on. Not without performing. And it’s… nice.

Too nice.

So, I flick a peanut at him from the little snack dish on the table. “Still can’t believe you were a Black Star.”

He catches it and grins. “It was a moment. Don’t judge me.”

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