When Aiden’s bike was missing from the rack on Monday, I wasn’t worried. It’s not like seventeen-year-old guys never show up to work late. But when our shift started and I was still standing on the riverbank by myself, something felt off. Then Ellis trotted out from behind the building—his hair not coifed into its usual fauxhawk, his shirt visibly wrinkled. On his day off. And I knew. In another town, at another job, maybe I could have made it more than thirty-six hours without suspecting I was being blown off. I could have lived in denial for just a little longer and told myself that it wasn’t me. Maybe he got bad news. That his dog died, or his grandma was sick. Not that I want his grandma to be sick—I’m not horrible—I just don’t want it to be me. But I do live in Riverton and work at River Depot, so on Monday I do know. I just don’t know why.

“Did you have fun at ArtPrize?” Ellis says it with a smile, and it’s clear he doesn’t have an agenda.

“It was fun,” I say, picking red cushions out of a canoe and looping them over my arm.

Ellis tells me about his date the night before, with a “gorgeous blond” terrorist named Darren who took him to dinner at an artisan pizza place. About mini-golf, where he won, even though he tried to lose. “Liv, I’m inconveniently good at mini-golf.”

“Poor baby,” I joke.

“We’re supposed to go out again on Wednesday,” he says, but he doesn’t sound excited, he sounds worried.

“Well, he sounds nice,” I say.

Ellis nods as he stacks an armful of paddles on the rack.

“What’s the problem?”

“The problem is we had the best first date ever, and I have no idea how to follow that up.”

Part of me wants to laugh at how much I can relate to this. Aiden and I weren’t on a date—I don’t think, despite the kiss—but it was a pretty magical day. Art and music and stairwell kisses? Maybe it’s a good thing we stopped before we started. I’m not sure how we’d go up from there.

“What about bowling,” I suggest.

Ellis gives me a disgusted look, like I suggested he go sit in a pile of trash.

“Blacklight bowling?” I offer. “That’s kind of retro-cool.”

“I don’t think we’re the bowling type.” There’s a stretch of silence and then Ellis turns to me. “I thought you wrote love stories. Shouldn’t you be good at this sort of thing?” He smiles and goes back to stacking.

“Aiden told you that?” I’m not sure if I’m upset that he told Ellis, or flattered that he was talking about me.

“Is it a secret?”