“It’s not salt water,” she says, coming up beside me. “But I like it.”

“This is really spectacular.”

She laughs. “It’s a lawn and woods. It’s more common, less spectacular, but thanks.”

The backyard is bright and green, littered with a multitude of kids’ toys. A swing set sits next to a haphazard square filled with sand. Weeds poke through the beachy material, and I wonder how long it’s been since Ethan played in it.

A bike is propped up against a tree beside a bright-orange circle that I think is a sled.

A sled in the spring? I have so many questions.

“I keep thinking that one day I’ll get a hammock and stretch it between those two trees,” she says, pointing to a couple of large tulip poplars near the bike.

“Great idea. Have you not lived here long?”

She laughs again. “I moved here shortly after Jared and I broke things off. My boss, Kirk, actually owns this place and gives me a great deal on the rent. Otherwise, we’d be living in a box somewhere.”

I’m not sure what my face does, but Palmer bumps my shoulder.

“I was kidding.” She grins. “I’d at least be able to live in one of the buses at Skoolie’s.”

I’m not sure why she thinks that’s funny. Maybe because she knows she’s joking. But I really don’t find much amusement in it.

She walks out of the room, talking to me over her shoulder. “Do you want a drink?”

“Yeah. Sure,” I say, following her.

She leads me into a bright-white kitchen. The counters are black and gray, made out of some kind of laminate, and the floors are the same hardwood as the living room and foyer.

“I have pop, water, and milk,” she says, peering into the fridge. “But I wouldn’t trust the milk.”

“Pop?”

Of course I know what she means. I’ve traveled across America enough to know that some parts of the country use the word “pop” instead of “soda.” But hearing it out of her mouth is adorable.

“Coke. Coca-Cola, to be precise. In the Midwest, it’s just pop. Order a pop, you’ll get a Coke.”

I smile. “I’ll take a pop.”

She goes to work getting two glasses and then filling them with ice.

“Tell me about Skoolie’s,” I say, keeping the bar in between us. “What do you do there?”

“We sell buses and bus parts. I know it sounds kind of off the wall, like how big could that market possibly be, but it’s huge.” She hands me a glass and a Coke. “We sell to customers all over North and Central America.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking the drink. “That sounds really complicated.”

Her eyes shimmer. “Oh, it can be. There’s a ton of red tape and logistics, and it can be a total nightmare. But, secretly, I love it.”