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“I can’t believe you grew up here. It’s such a cute place to live, all the trees and the adorable cabins and houses. What was it like living on a lake?”
“It was pretty much exactly like most people imagine,” he says, looking over his shoulder as he makes a left to pull into a parking spot outside a small building tucked away on the side of the road. “A mountain town where everyone knows the gossip. Lots of time on the water. High school kids getting up to no good at late-night bonfires.”
“Sounds amazing.” I hop out of the truck. “We got here so fast.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Small town, not a lot of places to go. The twins are here, and I’d much rather us have a drink with them than try to find a spot at Lucky’s on a Saturday night.”
I only understand some of what he said, but I follow along as we cross the dirt lot to what looks like a quintessential small-town dive bar.
All-wooden exterior, weathered from years of sun and lake water. A few windows, though you can’t see through them because there are neon signs hanging in the center of each one, boasting the exotic tastes of Coors Light and Budweiser. A sandwich board outside says Give in to beer pressure, and a small sign hanging above the front door says The Mitch.
Something about the name feels familiar, but before I can ask about it, I hear a curse to my left. Three men smoking off to the side of the entrance turn toward us as we approach. One of them chucks his butt on the ground and stomps it out, pushing away from where he’s leaned against the wall, a smile on his face.
“Fuck, man. I didn’t even realize what time of year it was.”
He strides over and pulls Boyd into a big hug, each of them patting each other on the back in that very manly way.
“Good to see you, Car,” he says, though his expression doesn’t look as easygoing as it did a few minutes ago.
“You too. Do you see this, boys?” he calls out to the other two guys. “Mr. Mitchell is back in town.”
They lift hands and give Boyd waves but don’t move from their smoking spot a dozen or so yards away.
Boyd turns to introduce me. “Carson, this is Ruby. She’s…” He pauses, his head tilting to the side as he struggles with his words. “She’s staying on the lake for a little bit. Ruby, this is Carson Dillard. We go way back.”
“Yeah, we do.” Carson eyes me then slaps Boyd on the back. “This guy was my biggest competition. We fought it out in the pool, we fought it out on the field, and we fought it out with the ladies.”
He draws out the word ladies in a way that makes me want to wrinkle up my nose, but I manage to keep a neutral expression on my face when I give him a hello.
The two of them talk for a few minutes, referencing a few people who are in town and agreeing to see each other at some sort of end-of-summer festival. I listen politely, trying to remember the names and information in case we talk about it later.
It’s hard to focus, though, because my mind struggles to move past the strange way he introduced me.
Did he not want to say I was his friend? Or his date for the evening? Maybe I’m overreacting or overanalyzing—something I’m very prone to do—but it seemed a little weird. He said he doesn’t have a girlfriend, but what if he’s trying to keep his options open? It sounds like he was a guy who got around when he was younger; maybe there are other girls in town he wants to see and saying I’m his date will screw things up?
Ugh. I don’t like any of those possibilities. None of them sit well with me, and I wonder if I jumped too quickly at getting together when I don’t really know that much about him.
I don’t want anything serious, obviously, but I don’t want to be one of many, either.
Before I can fully form my thoughts about whether I’ll ask Boyd about it, Carson says he’ll see us later, giving a brief nod to me and heading back over to smoke with the guys who are still hanging outside.
Boyd turns and extends his arm.
“Shall we?” he says, opening the front door and ushering me through in front of him.
It’s dark inside The Mitch, and Boyd bumps into my back when I come to a halt, worried I can’t see anything and am going to end up knocking over a waitress with a tray full of drinks.
“It takes a minute for your eyes to adjust,” he says, that sexy voice rumbling close to my ear and sending a shiver down my spine.
It’s hard to hear him over the noise of what I’m assuming is a packed bar, but I can still feel him all the way down in my toes.
“We’re over in the corner.”
Boyd takes my hand in his and leads the way, past the bar and the tables clustered in the middle, past the small stage and even smaller dance floor off to the side, past the pool table and jukebox.
As my eyes begin to sort things out, I see dozens of people scattered through the room, sitting at tables and standing at high-tops, chatting and laughing and drinking. There’s still a hazy quality to the air, almost like the days of indoor smoking left behind a permanent cloudiness.
Eventually, I spot where we’re going: a high-top table tucked between a massive bear made entirely of wood and a dartboard, currently occupied by a man and two women around my age with big smiles on their faces.
