“It’s a big, diverse state, so there’s no one way to describe it. Lots of water, lots of swampland, lots of mosquitos, and lots of tanned old folks.” He winks. “Tampa is a suburban area on the gulf side of the state. My condo’s in the Channelside District east of downtown. I like my place. Lots to do around me.”
“Like what? I know you like to fish.”
“Bars, restaurants, good spots for jogging, and hanging out.”
“And you don’t like your work, you said?” I ask.
He puts one foot up against the front edge of the carriage. “Not really. It’s sedentary, repetitive, and there are too many meetings. Nothing like your job, I’ll bet. What about you? Do you like styling people’s hair?”
I sigh. “Yes, but I wouldn’t mind doing it less and spending more time doing other things. I just can’t afford to yet. And James doesn’t help.”
Joe looks surprised. “Why is that?”
I feel a vent coming on. “He’s such a drain on my finances. He doesn’t pay rent because he can’t afford to. He works part-time at a grocery store, so I ask him to buy our food, which he does, but then he eats everything while I’m at work. He doesn’t have friends, doesn’t date, and doesn’t have any hobbies—except television.”
“Sounds like you have a case of failure to launch there.”
I turn to him. “Exactly! The only thing he really does to help around the house is take care of my cat. At least he does that well. Anyway, I’m sorry to complain. He’s just . . . a headache.”
I stare out at the street to distract myself from thoughts of James. It’s busy with people enjoying their Friday evening.
“I’m sorry again about James.” Joe follows my gaze. “Hey, is that Union Station? I’d love to get a look if you don’t mind a stop before dinner.”
“Of course not,” I say.
He tells the pedicab driver, who makes a quick turn to the right and pedals a few blocks down. Joe leans forward, his eyes drinking in the station as we ride toward it.
It is a beautiful, vibrant spot. Colorful lights shine on the grand stone terminal building of Denver’s downtown transportation hub. They renovated the area about ten years ago, adding a fancy hotel, bars and restaurants, and one of those flat fountains out front where water shoots up from brightly lit holes in the ground for the kids to run through. Lots of them are doing that now, shrieking as they go. We stop in front.
“Are you getting out here?” the driver asks.
“We can if you want to,” I say to Joe, who’s still taking it all in.
“No, that’s okay. I’m happy to have gotten a look at it. I’m good,” he tells the driver, who turns the pedicab around and pedals back the way we came.
“Are you a train fan?” I ask.
He chuckles. “I was one of those kids who loved model trains. My dad had a table in the garage where we’d put tracks together and I’d spend hours running the trains around. I outgrew the models, but not the interest in trains. I try to see stations whenever I go to new places.”
I nudge him. “Then we should have gone in so you could see it properly.”
“Another time. Tonight is about you.”
The driver takes us across a bridge that crosses the Platte River. I’ve been here once or twice before while visiting the nearby REI flagship store for hiking boots, ski equipment, and such. Once we cross the river, we’re in a neighborhood of hip condos, cafes, and eateries on a hillside overlooking downtown. After pedaling hard to ascend the hill, the driver pulls up, huffing and puffing, in front of a restaurant, Forest Room 5.
Joe pays the guy and takes my hand to help me out. Somehow it feels natural to let him keep it as we stroll inside. The outside of the place is glass windows and brick walls with potted trees and plants. Inside, to my delight, a human-sized carved wood bear statue stands at attention and a wooden deer lingers near the restrooms toward the back. Smaller carved animals cavort with the alcohol bottles along the wall above the bar. The decor is sylvan and earthy and a bit like an upscale campsite with polished wood bar, tables, and floors.
Joe checks in with the host. “Reservation for Davis. On the patio.”
Joe Davis. A simple, strong name. He holds my hand with an easy strength, too.
“Is sitting outside okay?” he asks me. “I thought it sounded good for such a mild evening.”
“That’s perfect.”
We follow the host to a round table with cut log stools. Twinkle lights dance on strings above our heads, a few dogs sit patiently at their owners’ feet, and a couple hover close together with their drinks inside a teepee surrounded by fir trees. It’s magical.
“Would you like a drink?” Joe asks.
I peruse the menu, which is adorned with a sketch of a porcupine. Several of the cocktails are named after animals found in Colorado like Bear Heaven, Lone Wolf, and The White Buffalo Manhattan.
“I’d like a Huckleberry Lynx, please.” It’s made with huckleberry vodka, which sounds like it could be pink. Joe orders a local microbrewery beer.
“So, what do you think?” He smiles a little shyly. “I picked this place because you said you liked hiking. I told you we’d stay in public, which ruled out a moonlit hike, so this was the next best thing I could find on short notice.”
I glance around with a fresh perspective. How thoughtful of him. I keep having the urge to pinch myself. Nights like this don’t happen to me.
“It’s wonderful, thank you.” I cross my arms on the table in front of me and lean in. “So, I’m curious. What train stations are your favorites?”
He scratches his ear. “Well, I’d have to go with Grand Central in New York. I mean, that’s a given. But a close second is Union Station in DC, or Union Station in Kansas City, Missouri. You’d be surprised how many Union Stations there are in the U.S. The Santa Fe Depot and King Street Station in Seattle were great, too.”
I shrink on my log stool. He sounds very well-traveled. I’m . . . not. “It sounds like you’ve visited a lot of them.”
“Have to. I need frequent breaks from my mother.”
I laugh. “Uh oh. This needs an explanation.”
“Well, if your brother is a rocket still sitting on the launch pad, my mother is a hen who won’t let go of her baby chick, even though he’s now a rooster who outweighs her by fifty pounds.”
I nod knowingly. “Does she live with you?”
He throws up his hands, palms out, and shakes his head. “That’s where I drew the line. She has her own hen house.” He pauses. “Although, she might as well. I try to have really firm boundaries with her, but she finds ways to slip around them.”
“I can relate.” If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that I need to have tough love with James, I could buy Grand Central Station. But it’s not that easy when you’re booting your only family out onto the street to fend for themselves. “Maybe we need to form a Tough Love Club.”
“I like it. Where should we start?”
The waitress sets our drinks down—mine is delightfully pink, his is an amber ale—and we tap the rims together. “I would start with helping James buy his own place—on the other side of town—then I’d help him pack, and then get him set up there. And I’d only allow him to come over once a week, maybe on Sundays. And no doing his laundry at my house. Or using my toilet when his inevitably backs up because he doesn’t know how to plunge it.”