“You’re very welcome.”
“On the plus side, yay me for getting the midlife crisis done a decade early.”
Grandma nods. “This is true.”
Which is when an ecstatic voice rises above the crowd. It actually almost breaks the sound barrier. Sabrina is about forty with white skin and short platinum-blonde hair. She owns the local hair salon, drinks stout, and is a keen country music fan. I know these things because a. she offered to fix my breakup bangs; b. I bought a round of drinks last night; and c. she was wearing a Dolly Parton shirt.
The person she’s shouting about stands several inches taller than the rest of those gathered at the bar. He has thick brown hair carelessly brushed back from his handsome face and seems to have frozen like a deer in headlights.
Grandma raises her head in confusion. But I am already out of my seat and weaving my way through the crowd.
“You do…you look like that guy…what’s his name?” shouts Sabrina. As much as she loves stout, it sounds like tonight she’s making the most of half-price margaritas. And who could blame her? “You know…the famous one who sings that song!”
Nash shakes his head, appearing more panicked by the moment. Guess cutting his hair and shaving his beard isn’t enough for some of his more hardcore fans. “I’m nobody. Can’t even hold a tune,” he says. “Really.”
“Which song?” asks Carter the librarian. He’s a Black man with short locks who gives excellent romance book recommendations. He suggested I readDaggermouthby H.M. Wolfe.
Sabrina’s perfect brows draw down in consternation. “The one about a car.”
“That doesn’t really narrow it down,” says Mac the mechanic. And I guess he would know. He’s a grizzled affable guy who offers a great deal on oil changes. He told me all about it last night. Though it’s going to take more than an oil change to fix whatever’s wrong with my car.
Nash’s fake smile needs some serious work. “I wish I was rich and famous. Have you seen the cost of groceries? Broccoli in particular is outrageous.”
Thank goodness Sabrina has a shitty memory and can’t remember his name. But it’s going to take something solid to end this speculation. For Nash to be safe in this town, he needs a cover story. And unfortunately for both of us, I know one the good citizens of The Bend just might believe.
I join the circle of people who have the rockstar surrounded, and ask snappily, “What are you doing here?”
“June,” says Nash in relief. Though his relief is soon replaced with a frown. “You didn’t want me to come? But you left—”
“Our apartment, when you kicked me out!”
“Um,” answers the rockstar, with much confusion. Seems he has some waking up and catching up to do. And he needs to do it fast, for him to have any hope of remaining incognito.
I clutch dramatically at my chest region. “You broke my heart!”
“Oh my god,” says Rose, in surprise. The bartender stands behind the counter with a towel in hand. “Is thisthe idiot?”
So, given everything that happened, I’ve been refusing to say my ex’s name. He deserves no such consideration or accurate identification from me. During last night’s booze-fueled, emotional word vomit, the man was simply referred to as The Idiot, and I stand by this choice as a mature adult.
Rose gives the tall, handsome stranger an appreciative glance. And well they might. Aaron Porter aka Nash is an easy eleven. His sharp cheekbones and perfect jawline would make a sculptor weep. I myself am more of a six. The girl next door who grew up to have an okay personality and reasonably solid work habits, with not much patience but great breasts and a banger collection of romance books.
“He followed you all the way to Washington?” asks Carter in awe. He’s clearly a romantic.
Mac strokes his neat gray beard. “Could probably use an oil change.”
I try to squeeze out a tear. But my acting skills are sadly lacking. There are valid reasons why I wound up in the chorus of the high school musical.
And yes—understanding finally dawns in Nash’s eyes. He straightens his muscular shoulders and holds out a hand to me. “I’ve come to win you back!”
“Give me strength,” says Grandma, who apparently decided to join us.
Sabrina stares at Nash with so much bewilderment. Just all the uncertainty in the land.
“Whatever it takes,” continues Nash.
“So you’re willing to start talking about your feelings?” asks Carmen, who runs tonight’s food truck with her husband. Their marriage is going through a rocky period. She and I may have cried together in the bathroom last night.
“Yes!”
