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I head back to the couch, my head as bleak as it was before my walk around the cabin. Lying down and pulling the afghan over me, I set my alarm on my phone for twenty minutes and shove it under the pillow. A quick nap will hopefully refresh me.
Twenty minutes later, my head vibrates from my phone, and I reach under the pillow to grab it, turning it off. I close my eyes briefly and recall the most vivid dream I just had. Grabbing my laptop, I can’t open my blank file fast enough.
My fingers land on the keyboard with a thud and move on their own accord.
Bea was quiet, reserved. She wasn’t like her roommate, Nia, who drew the attention of all the boys. Bea was plus size, large-framed, big-boned, whichever word was politically correct these days. Nia was slim, fit, and could make any piece of clothing look good.
Nia walked into the small mountain bar where she was supposed to meet up with some drummer. She’d asked Bea to join her just in case things went south. Bea already knew what to expect from the night. She’d be nursing a drink at the bar while Nia flitted around, flirting and holding court. But she had no other plans for the night, so Bea had agreed to come anyway.
They had no sooner gotten their drinks than the drummer (Trek, Trey, Trev?) approached Nia from behind. He covered her eyes and looked at Bea, smiling wide. He was cute in that rock star type of way—messy dark hair that looked on the verge of greasy with a band T-shirt she didn’t think was his actual band, along with a pair of jeans and metal chain that went from his belt loop to his wallet. And of course, the finishing touch—a pair of beat-up Converse. He was Nia’s type, which assured Bea that her assumption was correct. Bea would nurse a drink until Nia told her she was going home with him, then all three of them would take an Uber to their place and she’d be rewarded with having an awkward run-in with him in the kitchen in the morning. If Bea was really lucky, she’d bump into him in the middle of the night in the hallway after he used the bathroom, and of course, he wouldn’t have put the toilet seat back down.
“Guess who?” he says.
What are we, five? Bea thought and quickly reprimanded herself. The reason she didn’t have a boyfriend was because of intrusive thoughts like that. She could be a tad judgmental and nit-picked any guys who hit on her.
“I could tell those calluses anywhere,” Nia said and turned around and hugged Trek—at least Bea thought that was his name.
Bea refrained from calling Nia on her bullshit since she liked anyone who played in a band, especially a drummer, and everyone knew they had calluses. Again, Bea assumed this was why she couldn’t find anyone. She refused to act like one of those stupid giddy girls. Flirting was not Bea’s forte.
“Let me show you the set list,” the drummer said.
Nia glanced at Bea as if Bea might say no, stay here. Bea had never said no, stay here. She waved her friend to go on, encouraging like any good wingwoman should. Nia slid off her stool and accepted his hand, and he dragged her away as she laughed at some stupid joke he’d made.
Bea raised her hand to the bartender. When she went to bars with live bands, she relied on reading lips and pointing most of the time to get what she wanted. Most of the time, no one was the wiser that she was deaf. Most people would be amazed how much you don’t have to talk in a bar. Hell, she’d gotten away with actually sleeping with a guy once without him knowing she was deaf. But Bea had always felt misunderstood, and sometimes it was easier to avoid the whole thing altogether.
The bartender had messy sandy-blond hair that looked thick and luscious. He had light eyes. Bea couldn’t quite tell whether they were green or blue or a mix of both in the dim lighting, but they held kindness when he approached her.
“What can I get you?” he asked, leaning closer so she could see a light five o’clock shadow that made him look even sexier.
She pointed at the beer the guy had next to her. The bartender nodded and opened a cooler with the bottom of his shirt that gave Bea a glimpse of his happy trail.
“My name is Pete. Holler if you need something.” He smiled, and Bea’s stomach erupted into butterflies.
Maybe this evening wouldn’t be a bust after all.
My fingers stop, and I break into a big smile. Finally, the writing gods are with me again. I feel the energy inside my bones, the excitement brewing in my stomach—this is the story I’m meant to write.
