Cal
I’ve carrieda lot of random things and people in my life. A drunk fisherman. A raccoon taking up residence in the bar that absolutely didn’t want to be relocated. A Christmas tree for a tourist that was wider than the doorway, and the tourist insisted it would fit. It did not fit, but I made it fit anyway, much to their dismay.
But, carrying a beautiful yet broken woman who had the worst day of her life is definitely the most enjoyable. Not the pain she went through. That shit sucks. There’s something sacred, though, about her letting down her guard enough to trust me with such a task. I’m just grateful she landed in my bar and not at someplace shady. Not everyone would have handled her situation with respect.
Life hasn’t been kind to her today. And that infuriates me.
Drool soaks into my shirt and I stifle a grin. Again, not the first time I’ve been drooled on, but certainly the best. Up close like this, I can smell her expensive perfume, but can’t name what it is. When I stopped the truck, she protested for about ten seconds outside the vehicle, insisting she was mostly fine and could walk, before gravity won, and she melted into me like her body finally gave up.
Your shitty day is almost over, Silvie.
Birdie’s porch light is on when I reach her cottage. That woman is one of the older women of Coconut Beach who meddle and look out for everyone. I turn the knob and nudge the door with my hip, letting myself in. Birdie looks up from the couch, a TV glowingin front of her, and she takes in the scene without missing a beat. I am carrying a beautiful woman, who’s wearing nothing but her underwear, and wrapped in a towel. It doesn’t look great.
She stands and asks me calmly, a frown marring her features, “Where are my baby’s clothes?”
I clear my throat. “She was in her wedding dress.”
An insanely expensive wedding dress. One that probably cost more than my truck. I think the way she looked at me when she said she needed that dress off will haunt me for a while. It was as if the dress was hurting her physically and emotionally when she begged me to help her get it off.
Birdie squints. “What happened to the dress?”
“She had a panic attack,” I say carefully, “Wanted it off. I think it was sewn on her. That dress is now no longer operational.”
Birdie exhales long and slow, as if this confirms something she already suspected.
“Lordy, Lou,” she mutters and heads down the hall to her guest room. “This girl has been through it.”
I nod and carry Silvie down the hall after Birdie, her blonde hair spilling over my chest, her breath slow and even. She murmurs something, and her fingers curl in my shirt. My chest tightens in a way I didn’t plan for.
Birdie opens the door to her guest room and flicks on the lamp. The space fills with warm light. Worn and faded quilts are neatly folded at the bottom of the bed. Everything looks ready, as if Birdie had lovingly prepared this room for her. Silvie clearly means something to Birdie and is so special to her.
I gently lay Silvie on the bed and pull a quilt up around her. She murmurs a little and curls onto her side. “Thanks, Cal.”
I give her a little pat and then follow Birdie to the living room.
Her face softens. “Thank you for bringing her home.”
“Of course. So, this is your Silvie?” I ask quietly.
Birdie nods proudly. “This is my Silvie.”
Silvie is beautiful in a way I can’t put my finger on. She seems fierce but soft around the edges. And you don’t fall asleep in a stranger’s arms unless you’re exhausted all the way through. You don’t beg them to rip you out of your dress. It makes me care a little more than I should, which honestly, makes me a little uneasy.
I don’t get attached to tourists.
But she’s not a tourist, is she? She’s Birdie’s Silvie.
Birdie crosses her arms and tilts her head at me. “Did she tell you what happened?”
“She didn’t say much,” I admit. “She ate and hung out with a group at the bar to wait for you to be done with bingo.”
There was a lot more than that, but I’m not going to spill all that to Birdie. It’s her story to tell. Not mine. I still can’t seem to shake from my mind how raw pain morphed Silvie’s expression whenever no one was looking. No one but me. I’m a bartender, so we notice these things.
Keep telling yourself that, pal.
“I would have left bingo when she called me,” she huffs.
“She said she didn’t want you to do that.” I gesture toward the back of the house. “I don’t know what happened with her groom. Seems like he let a good thing go.”
