If You're Lucky by Yvonne Prinz Page B

door of the Inn, I was leaning against his truck smiling. He looked surprised. He said nothing to me for a few seconds. He seemed to be considering what he should do. Then he suggested a drive. We drove in the dark, not saying much at all. Fin pulled into the parking lot above the trail we’d hiked down several days ago. I felt reckless, like I had the last time we were there. I’d never been this forward with a guy. Fin switched off the engine and watched the dark horizon. I watched Fin. This time I smelled nice. I’d prepared myself. I’d planned it carefully.
    Fin inhaled abruptly and turned to me and grinned. “How about a drink.”
    â€œI’m not supposed to drink. My meds.”
    He frowned. “Right. Okay, well you don’t mind if I do, do you?”
    I shook my head. “ ’Course not.”
    â€œWait right there.”
    He got out of the truck and I watched through the back window as he pulled a bottle of champagne out of a plastic cooler in the bed. I recognized it as the brand featured on the Inn’s wine list. He got back in the truck holding the bottle.
    â€œTa-da!” he presented the label to me and then he pulled off the foil and the wire cage like an expert and tossed it on the floor. I wondered if he’d intended to share it with someone else.
    â€œMiles will kill you if he notices. He does rigorous inventory, you know.”
    â€œDon’t worry, I’ll replace it tomorrow. He won’t even know it’s gone.”
    I smiled.
    â€œHey, wanna see a cool trick?”
    â€œSure.”
    He leaned over me, so close that I could smell his hair. He popped open the glove box and pulled out a bone-handled hunting knife. He extended the blade carefully.
    â€œThis won’t hurt a bit.” He pulled a knob on his dash. His high beams came on, eerily lighting the fog swirling up from below the cliff. He jumped out of the truck.
    â€œWatch.” He stood in front of the truck like a magician on a stage with the bottle in one hand and the knife in the other. He held the champagne by the bottom and with his other hand he ran the knife quickly up the side of the bottle. There was a loud pop and the entire top of the bottle and the cork shot off into the darkness. Champagne foamed up over the freshly cut glass rim. I squealed and clapped my hands. He bowed dramatically and got back in the truck.
    â€œThat was so cool!”
    â€œHere, hold this,” he handed me the bottle and pulled a thermos out from under the seat. He unscrewed the metal cup. I looked at the bottle. The top was sliced off cleanly as though he’d used a glass cutter. He took the bottle from me and filled the cup. He handed it to me. “Madame?”
    I hesitated, and then took a small sip. It was ice cold and delicious. Warmth spread through my belly.
    â€œWhere did you learn that?” I asked.
    â€œMy dad.”
    I handed him the cup and he took a thirsty swig. He refilled it. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
    â€œI’m not as interesting as you think I am” he said, like he was reading my mind.
    â€œAre you kidding? Paris, New York, Bulgaria?”
    â€œIt wasn’t like you think. A lot of my life has been hard times. After my uncle and I moved to New York he got deported back to Bulgaria and I should have been too but there was no way I was going. My family left Bulgaria for Paris when I was three. I couldn’t even speak the language. I couldn’t go back there. After my uncle left I took off. I became a street kid for a while. I even spent some time in Crossroads.”
    â€œWhat’s Crossroads?”
    â€œIt’s a place for juvenile delinquents in New York. I got caught stealing stuff, just small stuff: electronics, CDs, things I could sell so I could eat. They put me in a foster home but I took off again. I lived like an animal.”
    â€œThat sounds terrible,” I said. I pictured him darting furtively around the