“Yeah. You always have it clipped up. Let it down, embrace that natural wave.”
“Mywaveis a result of humidity. It’s not cute.”
“It’s sexy.”
“This is ridiculous.” I unclip my hair and fluff it in the bathroom mirror.
Mayben comes over after her shift at the diner armed with pie and chocolate milk in Styrofoam cups.
“Girl’s night!” she sings until Winnie comes running from her room, smiling ear to ear.
After I question her judgment the entire ride, Lauren pulls her car into a packed-out gravel parking lot. She hops out and waves me inside with her.
Morton’s is a country bar. I shit you not, a busted-out window, crooked neon sign, bass-thumping, dusty floor, worn-out billiards table, country bar.
Up on a small, questionable stage, a live band made up of a hodgepodge of musicians, calling themselves The Tchotchkes, play to the crowded dance floor. It smells like smoke, sawdust and stale beer. I reluctantly follow my sister through the crowd toward the bar.
“Lauren.” I grab her arm before we can take a step further. “What is this?”
“This,” she squeezes my hand, “is going out in Green Branch. Come on.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming.”
“Gwen!” Lauren calls to the curly haired woman behind the bar. Rhett’s sister spins and a giant smile grows across her face.
“Oh my God!” She smacks her hands down onto the bar. “I was wondering when you guys were going to come see me!”
Gwen Atwood has every pair of eyes at this bar on her, and I don’t even know if she realizes it. She has half of her hair tucked behind her ear, showing off a big chunky hoop earring and the daintiest smile lines by her eyes. She is all the beauty of her brothers in a much smaller package.
“Mayben is babysitting, so Hannah is off mom duty for the night.”
“Perfect. What do you guys want?”
“Just water. But Hannah needs a light beer.”
“I don’t need?—”
“You got it.” Gwen winks and spins back to the little fridge behind her.
The band finishes a song, and the crowd erupts into applause as Gwen slides our drinks over.
“So,” Lauren leans toward her. “Any guys here you have your eye on?”
Gwen glances around, surveying her royal court that is Morton's bar. Filled tables and a crowded dance floor all backdropped by dusty wooden walls and far too many rusted signs and neon lights.
“I can’t even begin to describe how uninterested I am in everybody here. I have known all of them since childhood.”
“Not even Taylor?”
“Not even Taylor.” Gwen shakes her head. “He dated my best friend in high school. Besides, the man works like three or four jobs and doesn’t say more than four words in a row most days.”
Taylor, as if summoned out of thin air, comes from the back holding a big case of beer, and the bar rag over his shoulder.
“You work here too?” I question.
“Yes ma’am.” He sets the case down, rests his hands on his hips, and I think I hear a woman swoon next to us.
“The Hamilton brothers are required to have at least fourteen jobs at a time. Each,” Gwen chides, which makes Taylor roll his eyes.
