“You too. But are you sure I’m all right in this?” I ask uncertainly.
“Absolutely,” she reassures me firmly. “Come on, it gets busy on Friday nights. Let’s go.”
Dirk’s is on the west side of the town square we drove around yesterday, in the basement of a three-story, flat-roofed, utilitarian-looking building. Large rectangular windows with black frames break up the plain redbrick face. The riff from “Fever” by the Black Keys is playing as we enter the building, and the music grows louder as we walk down the stairs and open the door to the venue. The walls are exposed red brickwork hung with framed posters of rock bands—everyone from the Rolling Stones to Kings of Leon.
It’s a bit low-rent and kind of dirty, but I like it, and as “Fever” morphs into “R U Mine?” by the Arctic Monkeys, I like it even more.
I may not look it, but I’m a bit of a rock chick at heart. Scott wasn’t really into music—if he had a choice, he’d rather have the TV on than the radio. I wonder what Nadine prefers.
No. I don’t want to think about Scott and Nadine tonight. I very much doubt that they’re thinking about me.
“What are we drinking?” Bailey asks as we reach the bar, squinting at the lineup of spirits against the wall.
I pick up a menu lying discarded on the counter, suddenly determined to throw myself into having a good time. It’s sticky to the touch and lists a selection of burgers, hot dogs, loaded fries, and nachos. I flip it over, searching for a cocktail menu, but the other side is blank.
Silly me. This is so not a cocktail kind of place.
The barman materializes in front of us. He has gauges in his ears and blond hair so wispy you can see his scalp through it. He doesn’t smile or speak, merely slaps two cardboard coasters on the bar in front of us and nods at Bailey.
“Hey, Dirk!” she exclaims brightly. His expression remains unchanged. She glances at me. “Rum and Coke?”
“Sure.”
Dirk gets to work, and Bailey laughingly says in my ear: “He’s an asshole, but that’s part of his charm. I’ll get him to smile at me if it’s the last thing I do.”
I believe her.
“Want to grab that table? I’ll bring the drinks.”
Several pairs of eyes follow me as I wind my way across the room, making me really regret my outfit choice. I wish Bailey had told me to change. She’s so much more outgoing than I am—being overdressed wouldn’t bother her. It’s one of the many, many ways in which we are different.
I sit down between a table hosting four grizzled old biker dudes, and another seating three middle-aged men in primary-colored T-shirts and baseball caps. Bailey and I appear to bethe youngest people in this joint, and we’re also the only women, but if this bothers her, she doesn’t show it.
“Cheers!” she says as she joins me.
“Cheers! And hey, congratulations on your marriage!”
In overcompensating for my insecurities, I sound overenthusiastic, but she seems oblivious to my tone.
She laughs. “Mom’s still pissed that I denied her of her one big chance to prance around as mother of the bride. At least I gave notice, even if it was only one week.”
“Was there any reason for the rush?” I ask hesitantly.
“Nah,” she replies, guessing where my thoughts were heading with that question. “We wanted to tie the knot without any hassle. I deal with enough of that crap for work.”
Bailey is an events manager.
“How is work? You’re at the same place as Casey, right?”
“Yeah, at the golf club.” She jabs her thumb over her shoulder. “It’s on the outskirts of town, about a ten-minute drive that way.”
Casey is a golf pro. He and Bailey met in California when he was competing at a tournament she’d helped to organize. He never made it to the big time and now he’s an instructor. He was offered a position back here and, as his parents and brother still live in this town, he was keen to return to put down roots.
“And you like your job?” I ask.
She shrugs. “It’s all right. I’ve done three weddings and two retirement parties so far, but the work’s not very varied. I’m worried I’ll be bored out of my brain by Christmas and then I don’t know what I’ll do. If Casey and his parents get their way, I’ll have a bun in the oven by then.”
“Is that what you want?”
