“With the douche of the century. Unless you’re texting that you’re dumping him, I can’t stand by and watch you embarrass yourself.” He shrugs. “For the best.”
“But…monkeys.”
Wrinkling my nose, I glance around the busy bar, jam-packed with flannel-clad lumberjack types, ski bunnies in designer puffers laughing at their own jokes, and weathered locals who look like they’ve been sitting on the same barstools since the early ’90s.
The bartender, a brute with permanent scowl lines, slides a whiskey across the counter to a man who looks like he sharpens knives for a living.
Welcome to Vermont’s finest: where every guy owns at least one axe and every girl has a story about hiking in the rain with a pair of boots she swears were waterproof.
But I love it here in Rutland. Our small town is located on the western edge of the Green Mountains, near some of the best skiing and winter sports in New England.
It’s always been home.
My gaze shifts back to Kenna as she twirls a cocktail straw between her fingers. “Do you have a ride?” I ask. “Weather looks nasty.”
“Yep. Irving is on the way, and you know he drives like my granny’s great-grandmother.”
“She’s been dead for decades,” I note.
Irving. Kenna’s boyfriend of one month, who wears loafers with no socks, corrects people’s grammar mid-conversation, and describes himself as an “old soul” when he really just hates fun.
Yet, according to everyone I know, he’s still ten leagues above my boyfriend of seven years.
Sighing with defeat, I tuck my hair behind my ear as the room spins. But it’s only a marginal spin. I’m fine. “Okay. One last dance?”
Kenna shoots my brother an apologetic look. He grumbles, waving us off toward the crowded dance floor.
I snag her by the wrist with a glowing grin and drag her away, shimmying us between sweaty bodies and a cloud of B.O. that’s infused with traces of cheap perfume.
Ten minutes pass before Tag saunters toward us in his ratty blue jeans and a random band T-shirt.
“Are you good now?” he implores, stuffing his hands in his pockets as two girls bump into him after a miscalculated spin. “Weather is getting worse.”
I glance toward the small stage that occasionally hosts open mic nights. “You should play here!” I blurt over the new-age pop music.
“Pass. I hate this bar.”
“It’s great exposure.”
“She’s right,” Kenna adds. “This place is packed on weeknights.”
I see the reluctant acquiesce brighten his face as opportunity sweeps through him.
He’s been working so hard.
Five nights a week, he plays. Coffee shops, wine bars, the occasional pub. It’s hard to recall a time when Tag didn’t have a guitar strapped across his chest and a euphonic dream in his eyes. Music is a part of him. An invisible limb.
He rubs his fingers along his lightly stubbled jaw, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I guess. I’ll think about it.”
“Yay! Let me close out my tab.” Scurrying over to the bar counter, I collect my bill and smile my thanks to a woman when she compliments the colorful highlights in my hair.
Warmed by the flattery, I tell the bartender to add her drinks to my tab.
Moments later, I’m this close to tears when I wrap Kenna up in a bone-crushing hug, as if I won’t see her ever again, even though we share a shift in less than seven hours.
“Text me later, so I know you got home safe.” She squeezes my hand, her mocha-brown eyes shimmering with affection.
Everyone knows that’s code forI love you.
