Chap: Where are you?
“Everything good over there fire fingers?” Oz asked, interrupting my argument.
I clutched my phone, tempted to chuck it out the window. “Yeah, it’s all good.” Shit, maybe I should tell Oz about Chap breaking my heart and he’d make a sharp uey and hightail it to Los Angeles. Dylan was strong but no match for Ozzie. Was that what I wanted, for Oz to punch Chap’s face a few good times while I egged him on?“Hit him again for me.”
“Was that Dylan?”
“Uh-huh … he was just checking in.”
“Normally when Dylan checks in, your face lights up and you get to twirling your hair.”
“Mind your business, Oz.”
“You’re blood. That makes you my business.”
“It’s nothing, just a minor hiccup. Dylan and I are fine. Everything’s fine.”
One thing I’ve learned in my twenty-nine years on this earth is don’t bad-mouth your boyfriend unless you’re prepared to make him your ex. Because if you did, when you took him back, everyone would know with one hundred percent confirmation how stupid you are. I was mad at Chap now. But maybe he could explain, maybe it was all an accident. Perhaps he slipped, tripped, and fell into rando pussy which was carelessly hanging around.
Granted it was a long shot, but maybe Chap could come up with a plausible lie I was willing to believe. Starting over was difficult, and our lives were so intermingled. We had a condo, bills, and a fucking dog. Were we going to be one of those couples who break up but co-parent their Cavalier King Charles Spaniel? How would we split the holidays? Knowing Chap he’d probably sue me for full custody.
Cheating was typically a relationship ender, but being an adult was realizing shit wasn’t always black and white. Chap was our manager. Could I just fire him? He was a staple in the country music industry, with connections he could use to advance or potentially stifle Whiskey Wild. And what about Darla? I mean I’m sure she’d back me up, but this was her career too.
Oz found a spot in the already packed lot and placed the truck in park.
“Is it always this crowded?” My stomach churned. I was interested in keeping things low key and the minute I walked through that door, it would be anything but.
“This ain’t even half as crowded as it’s going to get. You just wait, there’ll be cars lined up on the side of the road for a mile.”
Hopping out of the cab of the truck, we headed to the front door. Music was spilling out and so was the crowd with peopledrinking and mingling on the porch. The Tipsy Owl used to be a house owned by this sweet old couple who would give me candy. I know it sounds sketchy, but Bert and Erneil were the farthest thing from stranger danger. Even with the creepy similarity in name to stuffed puppets. They passed when I was still in elementary school and their place was gutted and converted into a bar. But the owners maintained some of the sweet touches like the wraparound porch with rocking chairs, the funkiest chandelier I’d ever seen, and a swing set out back framed by trees and an assortment of flowers.
When I crossed the threshold, I didn’t know where to look first. The bar was packed, the crowd was loud, and the music had me tapping my feet. I can tell you one thing, Los Angeles didn’t have places like this. All the bars and lounges in LA were overpriced and more of a spectacle. People were there to be seen, not for a good time.
At The Tipsy Owl patrons were here to let loose and hook up. The single customers were looking to not be for the night, and the couples were there to grind close while downing cold beers. I’d pick this place over any VIP section. Other than the occasional bar fights, this place was low key. The only designer brands in sight were the Stetson cowboy hats and Tecovas boots.
“You drinking?” Oz asked.
“Dumb question. I’ll take a Pilsner if they have it.”
While Oz went off to the bar, I slowly circled the outskirts of the room. My eyes pinging from one familiar face to the other. Closest to the door was Mac, we used to be in band class together. He was a beast on the drums. On the dance floor was Nancy. She was moving her hips in a sultry roll, capturing the attention of the man she was dancing with. And in my face was Margie Ford, with a smile as big as Texas.
“Francesca Palmer, are my eyes deceiving me?”
“I sure hope not. How’ve you been, Margie?”
“I’ve been busy working at my family’s real estate office. I’m an agent now. Can you believe that?”
“You hated real estate. You said no one wanted to sell old, dilapidated farmhouses.”
“I did say that, but it turns out I’m a nosy little goose and you can tell a lot about a person based off of their home.” Margie had always been a gossip, and it looked like she’d found a profession which enabled her interest in being the town crier. She continued, “I’d ask you how you’re doing, but we can’t escape you. You and Darla are always on the radio or television making our city proud. How long are you in town for?”
“Not quite sure?” I needed to come up with a good answer to that question. My current response made it sound like I was a drift at sea.
“Well if you’re looking to reestablish some roots, take my card.” She handed me a business card with succulents framing the bottom.
My eyebrow ticked up. Margie’s last name was no longer Ford. “Did you get married Margie?”
“Five years ago. I go by Leftfoot now.”
