“White picket fences are just not my style,” she said. Then she squeezed my shoulder and disappeared into the shop’s back rooms.

I resisted the temptation to follow her and tried to focus on Dexter, who was telling me something about wanting to get out of Iowa after graduation.

“But what about farming?” I managed to ask.

“There are farms in other states, city girl.”

I sipped my coffee while Dexter shared his dream of opening a farm-to-table restaurant someday, maybe in New England, where he would grow all the food himself and hire a gourmet chef to run the restaurant, all on one property. As he spoke, I listened, amazed at the human ability to dream of the future, to be excited for it, even though it meant they’d be closer to the end.

“And what’s your dream?” Dexter asked. “Besides getting out of Iowa.”

I set down my coffee, thinking. It felt good to be honest with Dexter, and I didn’t want to stop.

“I just want to live forever,” I said.

“So . . . you want to be famous?”

“Not necessarily. Immortality isn’t just for celebrities.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Dexter said, though he couldn’t possibly. “Invent something that changes the world, maybe, or write a bestselling novel?”

“Or a farm-to-table cookbook,” I mused.

“Hey, eyes on your own paper!”

The laugh we shared was quiet, close, and totally out of my comfort zone. Even in the shadows, I had lived my life fast and loud. Quiet was for the hunt, and close was something I simply didn’t do. But this . . . Dexter leaning forward on the table, his fingers brushing mine where they wrapped around my mug . . . this wasn’t so uncomfortable.

“Charlie, would you want to maybe go out sometime?” His green eyes looked up at me through long lashes.

I seriously don’t know how I went a century without knowing they grew them like this in Iowa.

“Aren’t we out right now?”

“Yeah, but I mean—on a date.”

“This isn’t a date?”

“You’re messing with me.”

“A little.”

His smile revealed that he didn’t mind.

“What took you so long?” I asked.

“Honest answer?”

“No, lie to me. Of course honest answer. I’ve been trying to read you for weeks.”

“I’ve been trying to read you too,” he said. “You are so pretty . . .”

I tucked my smile into my shoulder with a surprising shyness.

“But you’re also pretty full of yourself.”

My smile dropped like a rock, and I looked at him with lips pursed and arms crossed.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he rushed to explain. “Confidence looks good on you . . . real good.”

My arms uncrossed.

“And clearly you have a lot to be confident about.”

My lips un-pursed.

“But you kind of take it too far sometimes. At first, you acted like—like you thought you were better than us.”

I did.