I placed my hands on her hips, thinking that maybe I’d been making assumptions based on my own insecurities. It could be that I was reading too much into the secrecy thing. There wassomething to be said for privacy. Maybe that was all she really wanted.
There was one way to find out.
“Are you hungry?” I asked. “Want to go grab some dinner? We could walk to the Indian bistro down the street.”
I scrutinized her expression, bracing against my will as I awaited her response.
Bonnie hesitated, and I felt my jaw clench. I could practically see the gears turning as she considered her reply. I imagined her running through the ramifications. The gossip and rumors. What her perfect family might say. The people who would judge her for dating so soon, when her asshole ex has been picking up women for months. I watched the fear tighten her shoulders. And I fucking hated how much I cared.
“Um, could we get takeout instead?” she finally answered, voice quiet.
Well, now I knew.
I swallowed, making sure my voice was nice and even. “Sure.”
Then I asked what she wanted and set about placing the order online for delivery.
Disappointment shimmered beneath a rising tide of anger. Irritation I didn’t have any business feeling made itself known. Bonnie had made her terms clear, and I’d agreed.
I didn’t play games, and I didn’t get involved enough to have ulterior motives. So I didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with me or why her rejection was bothering me so much. It was like she’d failed a pop quiz I’d sprung on her at the beginning ofclass. I was being unfair. But I couldn’t do anything about my complicated emotions at the moment.
Bonnie drifted around my living room while I typed on my phone. Her sweater was still by the front door where she’d dropped it. She was barefoot in one of her long, jewel-toned skirts and a white camisole.
Unbothered, she lingered over one of my grandmother’s watercolors while I stewed ten feet away, like an idiot. I’d seen Bonnie eyeing the landscapes around the apartment before. I figured it was the art teacher in her.
“Are these yours?” She caught my gaze over her shoulder.
“No.” My tone was terse, and I worked to soften it, to relax all my bristling edges. After clearing my throat, I explained, “They’re Lia’s. The signature is probably cut off by the frame.” Bonnie was studying one of my grandmother’s earliest paintings and one of the first frames I’d made as a result. The craftsmanship was a little shoddy. I should probably replace it.
Bonnie stood on her tiptoes, examining the border. “Oh, yeah. I see it now.” Then her voice shifted, the word emerging slowly, like she was coming out of a dream. “Magnolia.”
I breathed out a sigh, knowing what she’d seen—what she’d realized.
I stared at the phone in my hand as quiet footsteps padded over to me. Soft fingers traced the delicate lines of my tattoo. From the blossoms shaded on my forearm and biceps to the flat, wide leaves weaving themselves in the space between. Bonnie’s touch followed along.
“Lia is short for Magnolia,” she said. Not a question.
I looked up, meeting her soft gaze as her hand concluded its exploration, fingers twining casually through my own. “It is.”
“It’s yours—the bar. You own it and you named it for her.” Another statement, but this time it was laced with confusion.
Shifting uncomfortably, I pulled my hand free and took a step back. “Yeah, it’s mine.”
Bonnie watched me, that familiar little vee forming between her brows. “But no one knows?”
“It’s not really a secret. No one has ever bothered to ask,” I clarified. “They’d rather make assumptions.”
And Bonnie had been pretty distracted with an impending anxiety attack at the one and only business owners’ association meeting I’d attended.
“Why don’t you just tell people?” Bonnie asked, still confused.
I huffed a humorless laugh. It wasn’t that simple. Everyone supposed I was an overworked bartender, or if they paid attention, the manager on shift. I just didn’t correct them. Seeing Bonnie’s obvious surprise a moment ago was probably the reason I didn’t broadcast it. It confirmed the fact that people made assumptions about me. What did she want me to do? Take out a billboard out on Highway 64?
“Why does it matter?” I said. “It’s none of their business. Besides, to them, I’m just Georgia Ellis’s screw-up kid. As worthless and wild as she was. They’d rather talk about what a fuckup I was in high school or how I should have been in jail for being a hellion.”
“That was a long time ago, Jack.” Her voice was gentle, like she was talking to someone unreasonable, an unruly child.
My jaw clenched. I wasn’t irrational; I just knew that small minds and small towns didn’t change.
