Page 63 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

“Not even a hint.”

“You'll find out.”

“Is it Silver Creek?”

“You're persistent. I'll give you that.”

She tries a new angle every few minutes. I keep my mouth shut and enjoy watching her try. Last Sunday, at the Grangers', I cornered Annie in the kitchen under the pretense of helping with dishes and asked what she thought Ivy would enjoy for a real date night. Annie didn't even pretend not to know why I was asking. She mentioned a restaurant in Silver Creek Ivy's always liked, and then, almost as an afterthought, an old drive-in that re-opened last year.

I did the rest of the research myself. Annie just pointed me in the right direction.

Dinner's at a place with good food and low lighting. The kind of ordinary place that feels right for tonight instead of something that would make Ivy wonder if I was trying too hard.

“You made a reservation,” she says, once we're seated.

“I did.”

She looks pleased, more than making a reservation probably warrants. I decide I like being the reason for that particular look.

We talk about simple things. A story from her childhood involving Reid, a slingshot, and consequences that followed him into his twenties. Something ridiculous that happened at the crew house this week that I somehow missed entirely. Places she's traveled, which turns out to be considerably fewer than the places I've lived. We spend a few minutes comparing the strangeness of growing up rooted versus growing up in motion.

A song comes on somewhere in the background, quiet under the restaurant noise.

“Who's this?” Ivy asks, testing me, the same way she has been since the truck ride to Timber Creek all those weeks ago.

“Tom Petty.”

“You didn't even think about that.”

“There's nothing to think about. It's Tom Petty.”

“That feels like cheating.”

“How does someone cheat at recognizing a song?”

She doesn't have an answer, just shakes her head and goes back to her dinner, smiling.

I watch her across the table, not because of how she looks, though the dress hasn't left my mind. It's the way she laughs at her own jokes half a second before she finishes telling them. The way she leans forward when she's interested in what I'm saying instead of just being polite. How easy this is, sitting here with her, talking about nothing important, like we've done this a hundred times even though it's technically our first real date.

That's the strange part. It doesn't feel like a beginning. It feels like something that was already built, getting one more layer added to it tonight.

When dinner's finished, Ivy thanks me, tells me she had a great time, like the evening's winding down.

“We're not done,” I say.

She pauses. “We're not?”

“Dinner was the first part.”

That gets me a look I'm going to remember for a while, equal parts surprised and delighted. I’m pleased as I lead her back out to the truck.

She notices we're not heading back toward Timber Creek. “Where are we going?”

“You'll see.”

She gives up trying to guess for a few minutes, watching the road. Then the sign comes into view, covered with string lights glowing against the darkening sky.

I hear her breath catch a little. “The drive-in is open?”