NOW
Iwatch the blush creep up her neck to the tips of her ears before she finally turns back to me, Coke in hand. She offers me a guarded smile. I’m sure she’s angry at me.I’mangry at me. For so many things in my life, but suddenly, ditching Melanie twenty-five years ago without a word is at the top of my list.
“I thought that was you,” she says cautiously. She moves toward me and sets the Coke down.
“I wasn’t sure,” I admit, “until I saw your wrist tattoo.”
Melanie bites her lip and looks down at her left wrist, studying it. My sister’s name, forever etched on Melanie’s skin: Cara. Warmth blossoms in my chest.
“Oh,” she says, looking back up to meet my eyes. “I got it as soon as I was old enough. It’s her handwriting.”
I smile wistfully, raking a hand through my hair. “I know,” I breathe. “I’d recognize it anywhere.” Then I roll up my sleeve and turn my forearm over to show her my own tattoo in my sister’s honor: “Love you, bro – Cara” from my sixteenth birthday card.
Melanie is speechless but she reaches out and grazes the ink on my arm, her eyes glassy. A jolt of energy sizzles up my arm from her barely-there touch. It’s been far too long since I’ve laid eyes on Melanie.
“You haven’t changed a bit,” I tell her, offering a half-hearted smile. Her strawberry blonde hair, the color of a new penny, piled on top of her head, has streaks of rose gold in it, and her blue eyes look tired, but they still glimmer when she smiles. She’s wearing a short-sleeve black polo shirt with the name of the bar on it, but I’m able to see a hot pink Hawaiian flower tattoo cascading down her upper arm. Shamefully, I find myself wondering if she has any more. I shake the image from my mind. We were just kids, and unlike me, I’m sure Melanie has her life together. She’s probably married now with children of her own.
Melanie offers me a grin. “Neither have you.” She takes a step closer to me and leans on the bar. “Did you want something to eat?”
“Uh, yeah. I’ll just do the crab cake sandwich.” I push the menu toward her and take a sip of my Coke.
“Coming right up.” Melanie turns and swiftly walks toward the computer, entering the order and then turning her attention to the other patrons.
I let myself watch her for a while. She is as beautiful as she ever was, her cute teenage figure filled out with the curves of a woman. She talks happily with customers at the other end of the bar, bouncing from party to party, ensuring that they have whatever it is they need. She leans against the center post, arms folded across her chest, watching the various singers taking their turn on stage. From here I can see there is no wedding ring on her left hand. Of course, that doesn’t mean anything. If being in Nashville all these years has taught me anything, it’s that the tips are better when you’re single.
Why am I hoping she’s single?We were so close back then. She was my first girlfriend, but it felt like so much more than that. Melanie was my first love. I feel terrible about the way I left town, but I was just a kid, mourning the loss of my sister, and doing what I was told.
Melanie doesn’t look my way again until my dinner comes out. She takes it from a food runner and brings it to me herself, smiling at me. She looks less hesitant now, and I can’t help but wonder why. I’m sure she has questions. I was hoping to run into her while I’m here. I assumed she’d have moved away the first chance she got, but there was a part of me that really longed for the chance to see her again. Now that I’m here, I have to saysomething. I can’t let this regret linger in the air between us.
“Here you go,” she says, lips curving as she puts the plate in front of me. “Be careful, the plate is super hot.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, plucking a fry from the plate and shoving it in my mouth to buy myself a minute to think.
Melanie doesn’t immediately turn away, which gives me hope that maybe she’d like to talk too.
I finish chewing, and we speak at the same time.
“So, how are?—”
“It’s been so lo?—”
We laugh, and it feels like yesterday, sitting side-by-side in Mr. Herman’s study hall, laughing at inside jokes no one else got.
“You first,” she says, gesturing to me. She moves to lean in the corner of the bar adjacent to me and I can smell her perfume. Suddenly, I’m back in high school. Her scent—cinnamon and vanilla maybe?—is so familiar to me, I could pick it out anywhere.
“I was just going to ask how you are.” I flick my gaze to hers.
Melanie plasters a smile on her face that looks forced, guarded somehow. Like maybe this is the smile she gives everyone who comes in here, that doesn’t really know her. “I’m well,” she says quietly with a convincing nod.
“You look great,” I say, but my words fall flat. Small talk has never been something I was good at, and it feels especially strained, given our history.
“What brings you back to town?” Melanie asks, knowing my entire family left the state shortly after Cara’s death. My parents couldn’t take the pitying looks that small-town life offered everywhere they went. They moved us south, to Tidehaven, South Carolina, where the towns are equally small, but no one knew us—traces of Cara nowhere to be found.
I sigh and run my fingers along my jaw. “You want the publicity version or the truth?” I smirk so she knows I’m not going off the deep end.
Melanie lets out a little snort of laughter. “You can tell me whatever version you want, Josh.” She smiles, but it doesn’t meet her eyes.
I push my lips together in a tight line. “I got dumped. By my band and by my girlfriend.” I let out a huff of air. When Melanie doesn’t immediately react, I keep rambling to fill the silence. “The truth is, I’m stuck. I’m supposed to be writing an acoustic album, and I can’t come up with a damn thing,” I admit, scraping a hand down my face.
