The Trouble Is

Chapter 15: First Dates and Soap Smells

"Agreed," he says as he takes my hand.

We've driven past the exit to the beach a few miles and into the larger public part of the lake. There are a few little locally owned shops lined up near the docks that serve the tourists and summer people. They still hold the images of prior owners with rusty signs for fish bait, cigarettes, and sodas. Katie and I are well-known regulars at the trendy, Pinterest-worthy cupcake shop on the corner. The spot on the opposite end seems to change its identity on a regular basis and is now something called Sunny's Café.

Sunny's is all barn wood and more old signage. It has worn wooden tables and chairs that just beg to be dragged around from one table to another. When we walk in, there's a group in the back playing dominoes and some old-school video games along the wall. East holds out a quarter and asks if I have ever played PAC-MAN.

We sit at this little table with the video game built into it and play through East's entire stack of quarters, working our way through the unending maze. The rest of the night flies by with pizza and cold sweet tea served in clear, sweaty jars full of ice. We talk about nothing and everything at once while we chase electronic ghosts and dip pizza crust in ranch dressing.

He does not ask me those things that everyone in town already knows. I'm sure there are plenty of people who were thrilled to tell the new guy in town what a mess my home life has become, so I don't feel the need to share. Instead, he asks me to play Two Truths and a Lie. That's a game where you have to guess which item is the lie. One person says three things about him or herself. It's typically things like "I know how to scuba dive" or "I can speak French." You say three of these things, two being the truth and one being a lie.

It's a fun way to get to know people, but I'm not sure if it's because of the truths or the lies. I learn that East has never gone skydiving or broken a bone. He learns that I have never been to another country or seen a real concert. We both like organic food better than processed, pizza excluded, and prefer roller skates over rollerblades.

East pays the check and leaves a few dollars on the table for the tip. I thank him for paying.

"What's next?" I ask.

"I thought we would head out to the lake," he says. I must have looked disappointed, because he laughs that soft, deep little laugh that makes his eyes seem to shine.

"Not the lake, as in the mob fest that everyone seems to love here," he says quickly. "I know a place that's a little less crowded. Are you OK with that?"

"I'm good," I say. As I say it, I realize that it's true. In this particular space and time, I'm good. I'm not stressing over Doug or Skip or worried about what's next for my mom. I'm not counting things or making lists or touching my fingertips repeatedly. I'm just here. And I'm good.

East drives slowly through the twisty-turny curves around the lake. We pull into a narrow gravel road, and I can see a small house tucked away under so many trees and shrubs that you can't quite get a real sense of the place from the drive. When East kills the truck's engine, the world around us goes silent. It's not until we are standing right in front of the house that I see what appears to be a house built around a tree. You wouldn't call it a treehouse; it's more the opposite of a treehouse. The tree seems to have thrived within the house in some weird earthy expansion.

East opens the front door of the house with a key from under the mat and then stands back to let me enter first. My shoulder brushes up against him as I pass, and I hear him make a little sound like he's catching his breath to hold it.

The house is really one long room winding around the tree. The floors are dark wood, and the little bit of furniture that exists here is different. It feels like a real person, not some factory, made all of it. There's a huge basket overflowing with colorful old quilts, and there's a stone fireplace on the outer wall. The walls have black and white photos of people and places and other times. Between some of these pictures, someone has carefully framed pieces of old letters and a few cross-stitched phrases. It all seems very personal and intentional.