Free Ties by Steph Campbell, Liz Reinhardt Page A

across the table from me.
    “I feel that way about sleep, too. My room is just my bed. That’s all.” She tugs the tie that holds her neat ponytail in place, and all that black hair spills over her shoulders and down her back.
    It takes a long second for me to reconstruct my thoughts so they’re coherent, because all I can think of is her hair, her skin, her bed.
    I clear my throat. “So, just a bed? What about a TV?”
    “I don’t watch. I don’t have time.” She shrugs breezily like that’s remotely normal.
    “You never just lie in bed all day, watching crazy reality TV or every James Bond movie ever made back-to-back?” I ask. She laughs and shakes her head. I cock an eyebrow. “Well, I think vegging in front of the TV is pretty damn elemental.”
    “No,” she disagrees, pushing her wineglass away so she can lean closer. “TV takes energy away from focusing on what’s important.”
    “Relaxing is important,” I counter. “Not that I’m glued to the set or anything. If I had my choice, I’d be out on the waves every day, sailing.”
    “Right.” She nods and leans back in her chair. “That’s elemental, too. Work. Doing what you love.”
    “Sailing isn’t just work for me. It’s also my passion. I think one of the things that sets me ahead of the other guys is that I really love being out there. I mean, you have to love it on a certain level to do what we do. But I love it all, on every level. I love the competition. I love the energy. I love being out there, on the ocean. I love the idea that if I don’t keep control, keep my mind on what I’m doing, I’ll be at the mercy of something that has the power to swallow me whole, just snuff me out, you know?”
    Her golden eyes go so wide I can see the whites all the way around. She takes a sip of wine and taps her finger on the rim of the glass. “That sounds scary, Ryan. I don’t think having that much risk in your work is something you can balance long term.”
    I don’t agree, but I like the feel of our conversation. The last thing I want is a defensive debate. So I switch gears.
    “What about you? What are you passionate about?”
    “My major is computer science.” She traces long, vertical lines in the condensation on her glass with her fingertip. “I’m in an advanced program, so we’re doing some pretty cutting edge stuff.”
    “And you’re passionate about it?” I press, noting how she avoided my question.
    She looks up and closes her eyes for a long few seconds. “I’m not yet. There’s a lot of base skills to get through, a lot of climbing before you can really be in a position where you’re passionate about the daily work. So I’m still learning.”
    “But you’re passionate about that, about the journey?” I ask, attempting to peel back her layers carefully so she doesn’t clam up.
    “I...am,” she says finally. “I mean, it’s a challenge. Most of the time. It’s...good.”
    “Good?” I shake my head. “C’mon. You’re way too amazing to waste your time with just ‘good.’”
    Her eyes roll and her lips twist in a frustrated smile.
    “You’re taking the flirting too far again.” She takes a determined sip of wine. “I think there’s a lot of good in having a solid job. A solid, sure thing you can get behind. I think sometimes wanting that crazy passion all the time means you chase things. You know? Like you become an adrenaline junkie. I want to savor the real stuff in my life and be contented in the day-to-day.”
    “But what if your day-to-day gets to be a grind?” I ask. “I get savoring the small stuff, but I think mixing in some overwhelming experiences puts it all into perspective.”
    She squirms a little, like her logical side is telling her that what I’m saying is right, but it just doesn’t sit well for her.
    Because she needs to experience it.
    Before I can dig into my theory, Jovan brings the crab out, his eyes a little teary as he looks down at the masterpiece of steaming