Tonight, she was the woman at the bar. Drinking the real thing. Starting to feel real herself.
“Actually,” she said, her voice low but clear, pushing the still-full shot glass forward, “can you make that an old-fashioned? And…have this one on me.”
The bartender’s brow lifted, amused. “Sure thing.”
He knocked back the shot with a practiced flick of his wrist, then set to work mixing the sugar and bitters, the clink of the spoon a steady rhythm behind the bar. The orange-peel twist caught the light like a flame.
Leanne brought the cocktail to her lips and took a slow sip.Strong.A little sweet, a little bitter. Like the truth she was finally letting settle on her tongue.
She turned on her stool to take in the rest of the bar—the sagging booths filled with truckers and locals, a jukebox warbling “Crazy” in the background, the scent of stale beer and cheap cologne clinging to the air. The atmosphere wasn’t glamorous, but it was real. Honest in a way that country clubs and charity luncheons never could be.
And maybe that’s what she was craving now. Something real. Something hers.
As she took another sip, her eyes caught on her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She barely recognized the woman staring back. Wind-tousled hair, no lipstick, bell-bottom jeans she’d borrowed from her daughter. A little rumpled, a little tired.
Butalive. The same word Nora had used to describe her.
She wondered what her life might look like if Dean couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change. If he insisted on going back to the way things were, pretending this summer had never happened.
Would she agree, shrink herself down again, tuck her dreams behind his desk calendar, fit her joy into the sliver of space he allotted her between dinner and Thursday-night sex?
Leanne didn’t think she could.
She hadn’t come all this way, literally and figuratively, just to hand her independence back like it was something borrowed.
No. This time, she’d keep it. The first half of her life had belonged to everyone else. Parents. Husband. Expectations. But the second half? That was going to be hers.
“Damn straight,” she murmured. She lifted her glass to her own reflection. “To me.” Then she drank.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Nora was still riding the high from the concert, her cheeks warm from laughter, her skin buzzing from the electricity of the crowd, the kiss, the music. Who needed drugs when the whole day had been a natural high?
She couldn’t stop smiling. The whole thing—dancing in the mud, the handcuff joke, Joe’s ridiculous historical references—had been the type of keepsake memory that rooted itself deep. A moment she already knew she’d carry for the rest of her life, tucked beside her heart like a pressed flower in a book. How many memories like that did Eleanor have? Enough she’d wanted to relive them. Nora smiled, grateful that instead of staying home, she’d gone with her mom on this epic journey.
Now, she and Joe sat on a picnic bench behind the motel, stars freckling the black sky above them, a velvety darkness experienced only this far from city lights. Crickets chirped in the grass, and the faint hum of a vending machine buzzed nearby.
Nora leaned against Joe’s side, savoring his warmth, which bled into her skin like sunshine after a long winter. Casually and confidently,he slung his arm behind her, fingers brushing the curve of her shoulder in a rhythm that matched her heartbeat.
The way life unfolded was funny.
Not that she was some sage of wisdom. She was barely eighteen, fresh out of high school, but these past few weeks on the road had taught her more than any textbook ever could.
She’d learned about her grandmother’s wild, radiant past. About the ache in her mother’s silence. About the generational push-and-pull between autonomy and expectation.
But most of all, she’d learned about herself. About how many versions of Nora she’d been carrying around. The perfect daughter. The good student. The maybe-marketer. But another version of Nora wanted to write stories, kiss boys with kind eyes, and laugh so hard that her stomach hurt.
And maybe that was the biggest lesson her grandmother had given her. The best things in life happened when plans were tossed to the wind. When a person stopped gripping the wheel so hard and just…let the music play.
Nora rested her head fully on Joe’s shoulder, her hand brushing the fabric of his sleeve.
“I can’t believe we’re heading back to New York tomorrow,” she said softly, not wanting to break the spell.
Joe’s voice came low, close to her ear. “Woodstock?”
“Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.” Nora smiled into the dark.
She didn’t just mean the music. She meant the whole thing. The journey, the wildness, the unexpected softness of sitting under the stars with someone who made her laugh. She meant him too—even if she couldn’t quite say that out loud.
