“I don’t really know. I guess I’m hoping I meet some tech investor down the road who will back it and turn it into the next Match.com.”

He holds up his right hand for a high five.

“Come on—don’t leave me hanging.” I oblige and touch my palm to his. “There ya go, Champ. I’ll be the first to subscribe. I can use all the dating help I can get.”

The conversation stays in this sort of light and airy territory. Brian’s an easy man to talk to, and when he asks questions about my hopes and my dreams, and deems my answers high-five-worthy, it makes me feel casual and cool. He’s a lot kinder and more genuine than I anticipated this second go-round.

The farmers’ market is mostly just wine and olive oil from Temecula and booths to sign up for a Winnebago giveaway sweepstakes. Such is what you get from a tiny town known for its proximity to wine country, a casino, and (formerly) a fancy mausoleum. Regardless, Brian and I still take this as an opportunity to soak up the SoCal sun and saunter down Pala’s one main road.

“Olive oil lip balm or olive oil hand soap?” he asks, holding up two goodies from one of the vendor booths. “Screw it—I’ll get both.”

“Hey, can we pop into this bar real quick?” I say. “I’ve got to pee.”

Brian ushers me inside and we make our way to the back. The restroom turns out to be a single-person unisex setup. I go to turn the handle, but it’s locked. The bathroom is occupied.

“Oh, sorry. My buddy is in there,” says a guy wearing an excessively low-cut heather-gray V-neck. “He should be out any second, though.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile as I stand back and wait my turn next to Brian.

Moments later, there’s a knock from inside the bathroom and the V-neck guy next to us sets down his Rolling Rock on the bar and springs toward the door to open it. Out comes another good-looking guy, same age. He is in a wheelchair.

“You all good to go there, Steve?” Rolling Rock says.

“Yup. Sorry that took so long. There was no railing, so I couldn’t balance myself on—”

“No worries, man. Game hasn’t even started yet. Let’s get you a brewski, shall we?”

I can’t help but notice a slight resemblance between the man in the wheelchair and, well, Decker. Blond hair, blue eyes, with the quintessential Cali-cool vibe. Steve smiles at me before he rolls away and says, “It’s all yours.”

There’s an air-conditioning vent blowing directly over the sink as I wash my hands with a lemon-scented soap. The cold air feels good after walking up and down the rows of vendors under the midday sun, although it’s not blowing hard enough to dry the sweat that’s pooled on my upper lip. As I ball up some toilet paper to blot my skin, there’s a knock at the bathroom door.