(I’ve seen him, too, on Facebook. Sort of a heavy, pasty Ben Affleck.)
I see the lights of the bar flickering in the distance. I slow the car and pull into the gravel parking lot.
“Callie and Margot went away together senior year of high school. Left Mapleton and went to that chichi boarding school in Dallas called Hockaday. Jill told me once that there were rumors that they were “together” while they were away. Not sure if there was ever a thing between them but Callie sure acts likeit.”
15
THE AIR INSIDERusty’s is as cloudy as milk, thick with cigarette smoke. A row of clearly hard-living, hard-drinking patrons is parked at the bar, hunched over their beers. A jukebox in the corner floods the room with what Graham refers to as “hick hop,” the annoying, twangy, country rap that we hear piped through the speakers on our rare trips to the local hardware store.
A weathered couple cling to each other on the dance floor—which has honest-to-goodness sawdust scattered over it—and a bank of pool tables lines the far wall.
This is hardly a place I’d imagine picking someone up, but there is a lone cowboy type, tall and darkly handsome, leaning against a wall with a beer dangling in his hand. He eyes Margot, who crosses the room carrying a metal bucket of beer on ice and hauls it over to a large wooden table where Callie and Tina are already sitting.
We each pull a beer from the ice, and Margot takes a long slug of hers, then thuds it down on the table. A waitress crosses the room. Her hair looks as if it’s been singed from a box perm, and a ready-to-be-ashed cigarette hangs from her lips.
“Can I get you ladies somethin’ else?”
“Shots! Five shots of tequila, please,” Margot says, her gray eyes dancing. “And make ’em top shelf!”
Margot is practically vibrating in her chair. It’s as if she can’t sit still, so she doesn’t. She pops up and soars over to the jukebox. Bends at the waist and folds her hands between her knees as she scans the display. The cowboy’s eyes never leave her. She fishes a handful of quarters from a pocket, slides them into the slot, and punches in her selections.
“Where did you say you were from again?” Callie asks me. She’s eyeing me suspiciously, as if I’ve been lying about something.
“Well, originally from a small town in Kansas. Prairie Garden. But I’ve lived all over. For my mom’s work. She’s an ER nurse and we moved a lot. That’s how I wound up here, junior and senior year of high school.” I take a swig of my beer, cast my eyes around the room. A neon wall clock reads ten p.m. I know I really need to be getting home.
Margot saunters back to the table and pulls another beer from the metal bucket.
“What year were you?” Jill asks in a friendly tone.
“Two thousand one,” I say. “Same as Erin.”
They all swivel and look at me. It’s as if they haven’t made the connection that Erin and I are friends, but, then again, why would they?
“Erin Murphy. Well, used to be Murphy, now she’s Reed,” I say, my cheeks blotting with embarrassment, though I don’t know why I’m feeling the least twinge of shame.
“Yeah, we know her,” Callie says, her blank eyes resting on mine and narrowing.
“Well, obviously she doesn’t know anything about this,” I stammer. “I mean, I know it’s supposed to be a secret and all.”
Callie’s eyes are still trained on me, but Jill breaks the spell again.
“We’re older than you, then. Class of ’98. We would’ve been off to college by the time you hit town,” she offers.
“I’m thirty-five. Turning thirty-six this December,” I add lamely. So, they must all be thirty-eightish. And she’s right, I don’t remember any of them from high school.
The waitress comes over with the tray of shots.
We clink and slam them, chasing them with beer.
Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” warbles from the jukebox.
“Good, my music is up!” Margot says, tilting back a beer.
—
JILL FLOATS UPfrom the table and drifts over to the jukebox. She leans her back against it, sways her hips. Closes her eyes and softly mouths the words. This is it, I think, the moment in the porno where the glasses come off and she’s no longer a librarian.
The cowboy takes a long pull of his beer, his eyes trailing her swinging hips.
