Great Big Beautiful Life(29)

“What?” I say.

“I just…” I can see the wheels turning as he considers his next words. “You might be the least cynical person I’ve ever met. I’m not sure I’ve ever known anyone like you.”

I narrow my eyes. “You mean I’m naive.”

“No, Alice,” he replies. “If that’s what I meant, then that’s what I would’ve said.”





10




“I can give you a ride back to the hotel, if you want,” Hayden offers as we leave the cool air and romantic lighting of Rum Room behind and trudge down the ramp into the sticky Georgia night. “And bring you here to get your car tomorrow, if you want.”

I peel my thin jacket off and toss it over my arm. “Actually, I’m not at the hotel anymore. I found a furnished house for the month.”

“Oh,” he says. “Well, I can drop you off at your house then.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “I actually walked. It’s close. See?” I gesture toward the path in the back corner of the parking lot, which winds into a sparse strip of oak, pine, and palm, eventually curling behind the street on which my temporary housing sits.

Hayden stops on the pine needle–dusted earth just beyond the edge of the restaurant’s front patio lights and studies the dark path, a look of consternation overtaking his face.

“It’s really not far,” I promise.

“I’ll walk you,” he says.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “I’m both tall and scrappy. I’ll be fine.”

“This isn’t like New York or LA,” he says.

“In that the rate of crime here is probably a very small fraction of those places,” I say.

“In that there aren’t people all around,” he says. “If something happened…”

I hold up my hands in supplication. “I’m not trying to stop you. Just as long as you know you’re not obligated.”

“Again,” he says, “I do very little out of obligation.”

“It must be so nice to be you,” I tease, bumping sideways into him as I pad toward the mouth of the trail through the trees.

“Because I’m detached and coldhearted?” he says, falling into step beside me.

It makes me think of what Cillian said about him—an unpleasant sort—and I feel a spike of protectiveness, followed by a small, tender ache of sympathy.

“Actually,” I say, “I meant because you can always reach the top shelf.”

“Good point,” he deadpans. “I never stopped to consider how lucky I am.”

“Speaking of that—”

“How lucky I am?”

“Your height,” I clarify. “Can I ask you something?”

He stops and gives me a puzzled frown. “About my height?”

I nod.

“Okay,” he allows.

“How many of your girlfriends have been under five three?”

He stares at me for a second. Longer than a second. I think I might’ve broken his brain. Finally, one low bark of laughter. “What? What kind of a question is that?”

I start walking again. He joins me. “It’s just,” I say, “uncommonly tall men seem to always date absolutely tiny women.”

“Based on what?” he asks, seemingly befuddled.

“Personal observation,” I say.

He shakes his head again. “I don’t even know what to say right now.”

“I’ve just been wondering,” I say. “It always seemed, like, physically inconvenient to me before. But every time we’re at a table together, we don’t fit, so now I’m wondering if somehow evolution did it.”

He squints at me, his eyes glimmering crescents beneath his stern brow. “Did what exactly?”

“Made tall men and short women pair up,” I say. “Like if you’re an exceptionally tall person, does biology just kind of nudge you toward being with someone who takes up less room?”

“For what purpose?” he wants to know.

I shrug. “I don’t know! Maybe because you won’t have to hunt as much if you’re not feeding two gigantic people, or because caves are small and you’ve got to save room where you can?”

He eyes me sidelong. “Add scientist to that list of better jobs you’ve been keeping.”

“Oh, trust me, that’s already on my mom’s list,” I say. “There’s a strong aura of Why are you writing about child stars when you could be solving the climate crisis, Alice that permeates most of our phone calls.”

Once more, he stops walking. I’m used to walking and talking, but it seems like every time Hayden has something he really wants to say or ask, he has to go still first. “What about your dad?” he says now. “Is he any more understanding? About your work?”

“Um, yeah,” I say, still moving, my eyes following the path of my sandals, my pink pedicure almost glowing in the dark. “He was, actually. Or, I don’t know if he understood it, but he was super supportive. He was the more grounded of the two. Loved books and movies and all of that, whereas my mom was kind of all purpose, all the time.”