Page 50 of Licks

Attempting to incinerate that visual, I debated what to ask next. How best to figure out who my father was. But the question that escaped surprised the heck out of me. “What was she like?”

“Sweet as pie. Funny. Always making the servers laugh. Said if she didn’t become a dancer, she wanted to be a comedian. Make the world smile. But, man, when she danced?” He whistled. “The whole room watched. Bet she wound up on Broadway, like she planned.”

A comedian. A Broadway star. A girl who’d dreamed of greatness. She’d had high hopes for an exciting future. Heat pricked my eyes.

I’d never forget the day I came home to find my CD collection gone. My mother had trashed them, claimed my music was the reason my grades were poor. She’d hidden my guitar, too. My gift from August. All because my eighth-grade teacher had shown up at our house to explain I had a learning disorder. That I needed visual cues and support at home and school.

My mother’s supportive reply: “She just needs to work harder.”

She’d excelled in demoralizing me back then, but surprisingly, amazingly, for the first time in my twenty-eight years, I wanted to know Mary Hamilton. Something bigger than giving birth to me must have destroyed her spirit. Something to do with my father.

The man I was determined to find.

Doubts silenced my further questions. Turning that stone could unearth a whole whack of spiders. The scary, jumping, hairy kind. I could leave that rock alone, forget this ridiculous quest, but that choice led to more unanswered questions, more wondering, more years feeling untethered. “Did you know the man?” I asked Uncle Rex. “The one she came here with?”

He motioned to a waitress and tapped his empty tumbler. “His name was Ted, I think. Or Tom? She never gave me the time of day, but with her fella?” He hummed a rough, gravely tune. “Those two were hot for each other, but I didn’t know him well.”

Another image I’d prefer to torch. “Is there anything else? Anything you can tell me about him? Where he lived? What kind of car he drove? Was he ever here with other women, or just her?”

“Sorry, doll. The Sunshine Girl drank Long Island Iced Tea. They were always together. You’re lucky I remember that much. Those days tend to blur and I’m—” He stopped abruptly. His attention drifted up, toward the ceiling. “Actually, there was one thing. Forgot about it until now. Another girl looking for him once, asking around. Only remember ’cause she seemed pissed. On a mission to find him.”

“What did she look like? How old was she?”

He clucked his tongue. “Got me there. Sorry I can’t be more help.”

Disappointment set in, but I fought it off. I’d learned a name, at least. Ted or Tom. That another woman in his life had gone looking for him. An illicit lover, maybe? That would explain how a couple falling in love had fallen apart, but it didn’t shed light onto why a suitcase from 1990 had gone missing in 2001, only to turn up in 2018. Still, it was more than I had before.

I sensed someone behind me and turned, hopeful to spot August, eager to share what little I’d learned. It was the tall man whose seat I’d usurped.

Taking my cue, I thanked Uncle Rex and returned to the bar. Finch and August weren’t around. They were likely having their talk privately, a heart-to-heart that hopefully didn’t involve comparing their sexual encounters with yours truly. Sleeping with twin brothers was something portrayed in pornos. It was the worst kind of reality show.

It was also my life, as were these meager clues, and the upsetting conversation I’d had with August. He wouldn’t let the argument go. He was stubborn like that. He’d push and push until I admitted how far gone I was for him. As though that would solve everything.

If he’d seen me after my WTF, he’d know how fragile he made me. I’d built my body since then, reveling in ripping my muscle tissue, letting it repair, grow. Feeling strong made me feel sexy. It also made me feel in control. August made me feel weak. The second I admitted as much to him, the second I claimed him as mine, there would be no repairing that torn tissue.

No protecting my heart when he left.

Ignoring that prospect, I waved down the bartender and ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. Because my mother had loved them. Because she’d sat here and enjoyed this strong drink, underage, dancing and making strangers laugh. I only managed two sips.

I wedged my nose in her journal, had to carefully separate pages that had a tendency to stick together. She wrote about a lookout spot where she and this boy would watch the stars. She’d doodled in a few corners, a simple sun wearing sunglasses, a cigarette dangling from its sunny mouth. It was childish and silly, and kind of cute.

The next page had me pressing my hand over my racing heart:

He gave me my first drink. My first cigarette. My first taste of freedom. He couldn’t believe I had never tried a hotdog and dragged me to the stand outside the club. If my mother saw me bite into that processed meat, she would have lost her mind.

Well, FUCK YOU MOM.

I got ketchup on the corner of my mouth, and he wiped it off. So gently. We stared at each other forever. He must have known I had lain awake wishing for a kiss. Then he did it. He just leaned down…and wow. He kissed me! I didn’t know what to do. If I should open my mouth or drop the hotdog or let him slip his tongue against mine. He was so sweet. So, so, so amazing. I never knew kissing could be everything. That it could fill you up. Make you float. It was better than dancing. And nothing is better than dancing. I didn’t want it to end. I never want us to end.

It mirrored my feelings for August, that deep, searing need to reach for permanence. To make each kiss last. If he made me float the way this mystery man had sparked life into Mary Hamilton, it meant I could wind up broken and bitter like her, too.

11 p.m., 25 Hours…

August

Finch led me up a set of narrow stairs, into his office. He pulled a bottle of Talisker from his desk drawer, set out two tumblers, and poured us each two fingers of the ten-year-old Scotch. “I’m guessing this conversation will go down better with a little lubrication.”

I accepted my glass gratefully and took a healthy sip. The burn streaked through my chest, loosened my neck. “You guessed right.”