“I’ll get a pitcher of beer. What do you want?” she asks, still standing.
“Something light, please.”
“Of course,” she mumbles as she turns to approach the bar.
I spy the jukebox and can’t help noticing it’s new—well, new for this place. I pull my wallet out of my purse and make my way over to see what they’ve got to listen to. It’s digital, so it makes looking for songs much easier, but I confess, I do miss the old-timey juke boxes that let you watch the records spin. But I digress. Putting in a buck, I select three songs that will give this place a little lift. I pick “Any Way You Want It” by Journey as a nod to my mother, “Brass in Pocket” by the Pretenders, and “Alison” by Elvis Costello. I know what you’re thinking, my taste in music is a bit old school, and you’d be right. I’ve always liked music from the 80s and 90s, and since that’s pretty much all this jukebox has on it, I’m a happy little camper.
Back at the table, Rose has already returned with a pitcher of beer and two glasses. “Okay, I want to hear everything. Start at the beginning again.” She reaches out and covers my hand with hers. “And be very descriptive. I want it all.”
I chuckle as I sip my beer. “Fine.” Setting my glass down, I lean in to tell her the story again. She’s doing the same from her side, which is good because people around us have good hearing and big mouths. If it ever got back to Nash that I was talking about him at Three Sisters, he’d have a conniption.
After the story that ended with the part where he propositioned me, Rose leans back and asks, “How in the hell are you still a virgin?”
She said it loud, which makes me blush in seconds. I quickly look around to see if anyone heard her, but I think we’re safe. The booth behind her is empty, and the music is fairly loud. “Shh,” I say, leaning back over the table. “I told you that in confidence. I’m not that proud of the fact that I’m—” I look around again then back to Rose. “—you know….”
She leans in again and whispers, “A v-i-r-g-i-n?”
“Yeah.”
Sitting back, she takes a drink of her beer. “No joke, Izzy. You’re one of the sexiest women I’ve ever seen with your curves and that hair and those lips.”
I blush at her words. Besides, she’s dead wrong. There’s nothing sexy about me. I’m just Izzy. “I’m not sexy.”Obviously. If I were, someone would have wanted to have sex with me by now. Then I recall yesterday in Nash’s living room, and I blush again. I guesshewanted to have sex with me. Once. Only once. But it’s something, I guess.
“You’re fucking sexy, Izzy. Trust me.”
I shake my head and do my best to change the subject. “So, how are things going with your newest paraprofessional?” Rose is our special education teacher, and part of that job is supervising associates, better known as paraprofessionals. They work with each student, and some work one-on-one with a specific student, attending classes with them to assist as needed.
Rose rolls her eyes. “I don’t know who thought it was a good idea to hire the superintendent’s wife, but she’s a pain in my ass.”
I giggle into my nearly empty glass. “Oh, Martha’s a nice lady.”
“You’re insane. No.” She slaps the table. “She’sinsane. She brought everyone homemade peanut butter cookies on Wednesday, and I had to confiscate them. The kids were pissed.”
“Why?” I pause. “Oh, wait, I know. Peanut allergies.”
“Right.” She nods. “They were really good cookies though.”
“You ate them?”
She scoffs. “Fuck yes, I ate them.I’mnot allergic to peanuts.”
I throw my head back and laugh. My goodness Rose Avery is hilarious. Once I stop, something occurs to me. “Hey, I’m not allergic either. Why didn’t you share?”
She arches her brow. “I had to sneak eat them when Martha was out of the room.” She snickers. “You should have seen her when I gave her back her empty Tupperware.” She laughs again.
“You’re terrible.”
Rose smirks. “I know.”
Pouring the last of our beer into Rose’s glass, I look at the clock above the bar. We’ve been at Sisters for an hour. “Another one?” she asks.
I should probably go home, but this is fun. I haven’t laughed this much since I was back in college. I shrug. “Sure. My turn.” I pick up the pitcher and head to the bar to buy the next round.
At the bar, a deep voice says, “Well, hello again.”
I turn my head and see a man about my brother’s age. He looks familiar. When he raises his hand to me, I place mine in his. “Max.” He shakes once but keeps my hand secured in his. “Max Lang.”
“Oh.” I tug my hand away. “You’re Marcus’s dad.”
