The soda’s warm and a little flat. I reach for Julio’s glass, checking to make sure no one’s looking as I wrap my chilled fingers around it. I hand it back to him with a layer of frost. He raises an eyebrow and clinks his glass against mine.
“So it worked,” he says between sips. “You and Fleur kissed, right?” It takes me a second to figure out what he’s getting at. “Guess no one shorted out.”
I look at him sideways. He looks back expectantly.
I had assumed he and Amber tested the kissing theory in their tent last night. That the heavy silence on the other side of the thin canvas was more than just the awkward kind, when you stay up half the night wondering if the other person’s sleeping, wishing you had the guts to make the first move.
“Still here.” I gesture to myself—to my bandages, bedhead, and his ugly-ass shirt—all indisputable proof of my existence. “We’ll be in Arizona in two days. Maybe it’s time you make a move.”
Julio’s quiet, the sun-kissed skin around his eyes pinched as he watches Amber play. A waitress walks by, less than subtle in the way shechecks him out, but when he doesn’t seem to notice, she moves on to a table of road-tripping frat boys who just came in.
I don’t believe for one second that Julio’s never been with a girl before. There’ve been too many rumors floated around the Observatory about how many Summer girls have been caught walking home from his dorm room after hours. No way he’s a virgin. Amber, either, for that matter. She died in ’69, in the days of free love and Woodstock. It was only a few winters ago that I caught her half dressed before dawn, sneaking out of some university coed’s bedroom.
He shakes his head. “I don’t know, Jack. We’re so different.”
“Or maybe you’re just scared you’ll screw it up?”
Julio finally looks at me. For a second I worry he’ll crack his glass over my head. He slumps back against the bar with a heavy sigh. “The last time I kissed her, she disappeared.”
“So did you,” I remind him. Julio may have been the one to dematerialize on that jail cell surveillance video, but Amber was the one left behind. And that hurts, too. “Maybe she’s scared.”
“Of what?”
“Same things you are.” Same things we all are. Of being left. Of not being enough. Of being alone.
The waitress pushes open the swinging door to the kitchen. My stomach rumbles at the smell of our burgers sizzling on the other side. Julio watches Amber with the same kind of hunger as the girls rack up the balls for another game, their laughter and sidelong glances occasionally drifting our way.
Two of the frat boys head for a dusty jukebox in the corner. They laugh as they read the selection of song titles, then abandon the machinewithout choosing any. The other two saunter to the pool table, stacking quarters on the rail to reserve the next game. I can smell the cigarette smoke and weed on them from here. By the wrinkle in Fleur’s nose, I’m guessing she can, too. One of the boys cues up some music on his phone. The old men at the bar turn, searching for the source of the persistent, loud beat streaming through the phone’s speakers.
“Look at these assholes,” Julio mutters as one of them sidles up to Fleur, insisting on a game of doubles. He checks out her near-empty bottle and calls for another round, but I grab the waitress’s attention first.
The guys look annoyed when she delivers two drinks to Amber and Fleur. She sets them down on a couple of napkins and hitches her thumb over her shoulder, pointing us out. Amber and Fleur tip their bottles to us with angelic smiles. “Pretty sure they can take care of themselves,” I assure him.
They let the boys break. The taller one throws himself into it. The loudcrackbarely moves the balls, and when the girls start to run the table, the boys quickly switch their tactics. The loud one comes up close behind Amber—too close. He bumps her stick as she takes her shot, and she stiffens as her ball bounces off the rail.
An alarm goes off in my head when Julio pushes off the bar. Breath held, I wait for the temperature in the room to rise, but neither Amber nor Julio reacts. She watches Julio out of the corner of her eye as he moves toward the darkened jukebox.
“Don’t bother, sweetheart,” the waitress calls out to him. “That thing’s so old, the wires are all corroded. It hasn’t fired up in years.”
“Jack, want to give me a hand with this?” Julio slides the machine away from the wall. I chew on a smile as I ease off my bar stool.
“This isn’t exactly keeping a low profile, you know.”
I kneel beside him behind the jukebox. He blows the dust off the end of the loose plug and holds it out to me.
“Desperate times,” he says with a hopeful lift of his brow. “All we have to do is get it started, right?”
A quick tap of our knuckles jolts just enough power into the machine. It comes to life in cherry reds and muted yellow lights, and Julio discretely plugs it in before anyone sees. The lights flicker, resisting the weak current from the outlet on the wall before finally giving in. We push the jukebox back into place. The old men at the bar watch as Julio wipes the dust from the glass and thumbs a few quarters in. A record swishes into place, the needle dropping into its track with a velvety scratch that makes Amber’s eyes close for a moment, her head tipped.
“Unchained Melody” begins to play, the soulful notes drowning out the chatter of conversation and the clatter of balls. The club music from the boy’s phone dissolves away with them. Fleur hangs on her pool cue with a dreamy smile, watching as Julio leads Amber to the middle of the floor and draws her close, gently swaying her.
“Hey.” The waitress taps me on the shoulder. I turn on my stool, expecting our food to be ready, but she pushes a slip of paper across the bar. “Are you Jack?” That same cold sensation I felt in the parking lot slithers under my skin. I never gave her my name. “Some man asked you to call him. Says it’s important. You can use the pay phone out back.”
I turn over the receipt. A phone number’s written on it.
I check to make sure Fleur’s okay before carrying the number past the restrooms and slipping out the rear door. The lot out back is surrounded by shadowy fields of culled corn. I stare into the darkness, the hair on my neck rising the longer nothing moves. Tearing my gazefrom the field, I reach for the pay phone. It’s about as old as the jukebox inside, rusted and grimy, faded by the sun. I shove in a couple of quarters, surprised when I actually get a dial tone.
Lyon answers on the first ring. “Jack, I’m glad you got my message.”
