“I’m in,” Mac replied quickly.
Brady got to his feet. “Me too.”
The three of us made our way to the back of the bar. Brady introduced me to the men playing pool nearby. It seemed he knew nearly everyone inside Mattie B’s. Maybe that was a hazard of small-town life. Everyone knew everyone, and their business along with it.
Over the next hour, Brady and Mac taught me to play Cricket, with Mercerand Candace joining us in intervals. I spotted Joan at the bar chatting with Mattie.
I got invited to play pool and had a good time meeting other Kirby Falls residents. No one demanded selfies or autographs, but they asked about filming and my life in LA with a sense of wonder and curiosity that was refreshingly innocent, not attention hungry like I was used to.
It was nice. All of it. The laid-back atmosphere, the easy acceptance from people I didn’t know.
But whenever I caught sight of Joan chatting with various locals or sipping her drink next to Mercer or her sister, I wondered if my presence here chafed a little.
At a quarter to ten, I made my way over to the jukebox. I hadn’t seen one in years, and never one as old as this. I pressed the arrows to scan through the collection, the mechanical flip of the song lists a charming novelty in a time of playlists and internet radio.
“It’s a lot of pressure,” came a low voice from my side. I caught the hint of her scent—something subtle but fresh and verdant, like grass after it rained. “Pick the wrong song and all your new friends will turn on you.”
My mouth hitched up as I gave Joan my full attention. “Is that right?”
She nodded solemnly. “I once saw some out-of-towners—the Hixson cousins, I think—pick a song that made Mattie march right out from behind the bar and unplug the whole damn thing.”
“Wow.”
“I know. The Hixson cousins retreated in shame.”
“Did they paint a scarlet letter on their Patagonia fleece, too?”
Joan’s lips twitched before she could stop them. “Nah, but they only got served Coors Light for the rest of the night.”
I laughed, and Joan finally let herself smile.
Relief flooded me. I’d wondered if things would be weird between us since the NDA conversation this afternoon, and obviously, my presencehere had been unwelcome. I didn’t want Joan to be uncomfortable around me, so I was happy she’d sought me out and was talking to me voluntarily.
I’d thought it might be different, seeing her like this, outside of the farm. But as expected, she fit just as well here as she did in the fields. Joan still looked like a farmer—worn jeans, a baby-blue flannel, work gloves forgotten and sticking out of her back pocket. She wore her profession after hours as easily as a priest in his collar or a nurse in scrubs.
Joan looked so comfortable and casual that I envied her.
I’d stood in front of my closet tonight for an embarrassingly long time, trying to decide what to wear, what image to project. I’d hoped to impress but not intimidate. I wanted these people to like me, to know me. For the first time in a long time, I was worried about what someone might think about Ian Wells instead of Dorian Masters.
So much of my life was planned and styled and arranged. In the end, I’d grabbed my favorite hoodie that I only wore at home and a pair of jeans that were comfortable and worn.
Earlier this afternoon, when Joan had asked who knew about my nephew, she’d brought up my friends back home. I’d almost told her the truth, that I didn’t have close confidants back in LA. There were acquaintances, sure. Peers and surface friendships, colleagues I grabbed drinks or dinner with on occasion. But there wasn’t a single person I trusted with the knowledge that I was raising my nephew. No one I felt safe enough to confide in.
Information was leveraged in Hollywood. The last close friend I’d had—a roommate from before I’d landed a single audition—sold his story to some shitty online magazine after my big break. I’d seen other stories pop up over the years, from individuals in my hometown. It helped confirm that distancing myself had been the right decision. When I’d left Ohio behind, I’d put most of the people there in my rearview and never looked back.
So when Joan had asked about my friends, there hadn’t been a good answer—not one I’d wanted to own up to, anyway. What I did have was more loneliness than I cared to admit.
At times, I thought cutting back—taking on fewer roles—might benefit more than just Georgie. Eventually stepping out of the spotlight couldmake having relationships easier in the future. It was something I was considering more and more every day.
“Well, what would you suggest?” I finally said, indicating the list of songs from the brightly colored machine.
“That’s cheating,” she replied seriously, but her pretty blue eyes were amused. “You’ve got to sink or swim under your own weight.”
“No life preserver?”
A pause as she took a long sip of her beer—no pint glass this time. My eyes lingered on her full lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle. As she tilted the beer higher, getting the last of it, the sleeve of her flannel slid down her forearm, revealing a friendship bracelet.
I’d seen beads like that before. There were hundreds of them currently scattered across the kitchen island back at the big house. But I didn’t take Joan for a jewelry wearer, even something as simple and innocent as a friendship bracelet.
