Bennett cocks his head. “I never pegged you as the town gossip, Cal.”
Cal shrugs. “People talk. I listen. Kind of like what’s happening right now. Does that make me a gossip?”
“Would’ve been nice to know beforehand,” I grumble at my brother. “That Lucy wanted me to ask her to stay.”
“You still would’ve chickened out.”
“That’s not what happened. I was being respectful,” I say between gritted teeth. “And Lucy was just as much a part of the conversation as I was. If she wanted to stay, she could have said something. Does that mean she’s a chicken, too?”
“Yes,” both Cal and Bennett say in unison.
“You guys both stayed quiet when you needed to speak up,” Cal finishes.
I shake my head and Cal poursme another whiskey.
“So now what? I’m here. She’s there. I’m miserable. She’s…”
I think over the calls we’ve had. The exhaustion on her face. The forced smile. The litany of overly positive stories that spin everything into the best ever… just like she did with her dad that day at the ice cream shop.
“I think she might be miserable too,” I murmur.
“You need to talk to her,” Cal says. “And you need to be honest about what you’re feeling.”
He says it like it’s easy. Like it’s so damn clear. Like it’s obvious I should have put my needs before Lucy’s from the get-go.
“When?” I ask, folding my arms on the bar, leaning close. “In the five minutes I get with her while she’s in a hallway? Or on a bus? When am I supposed to have this deeply honest conversation with a woman I never see?”
Bennett shrugs and I turn to Cal who smiles gently. “I can’t answer that, but you can.”
I shake my head because I really can’t. I have no idea how to solve this problem.
A group of tourists come in, chattering loudly, looking around like the Lantern is a ride at some amusement park. They ogle us like we’re part of the attraction, then take a seat in the booth near the jukebox. One of the girls squeals with excitement at the cuteness of it all and begins perusing the song list.
“Isn’t that Lucy’s tour?” Bennett asks, gesturing toward her with his beer.
“That, dear brother, appears to be a woman.”
“Her shirt, dumbass. Sandro René, right?”
I squint and sure enough, she’s wearing a concert tee, complete with a list of dates and stops. “Looks like it.”
Which means this stranger has probably seen the woman I love more than I have in the weeks since Lucy’s been gone. I wonder what it was like, watching her move. Worth the cost of admission. That’s for sure. Worth sitting through Sandro’s music too. And I can’t think of much that would be worth that.
“Oh wow!” she squeals. “They have Grayson Kincaid! I swear, I’d have his babies, and I don’t even want kids.”
“Please don’t pick him, please don’t pick him, please don’t pick him,” Bennett whispers, crossing his fingers and closing his eyes.
The woman makes her selection and a song I’ve never heard fills the room.
“I thought you were going with Grayson,” the woman’s friend says.
“Yeah, me too. But something told me I needed to pick this one instead.” She shrugs and sits. The lyrics wash over me.
Go to her.
If your heart’s breaking and your soul’s aching
Go to her.
