I give her a look like,please. “I wouldn’t buy anything but platinum.”
Her nose wrinkles, and she mumbles something under her breath that sounds a lot likepretentious. “Well, we might have to. It’s clearly not coming off.”
My hands rest on my hips. “How is it stuck? The ring obviously fit fine twelve hours ago.”
“Well, now I’m bloated. I ate god knows how many fried things last night and it’s hot outside. My fingers are swollen. I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”
“Do you have any lube?”
She blinks at me. “Why the fuck would I be carrying around lube?”
“… Preparedness?”
“Jesus.” She turns and shakes her head, almost like she’s looking into an invisible camera somewhere. “No, Adam, I do not have any lube.”
I gesture to her giant tote bag. “You’ve got to have something useful in there.”
She rifles around and comes up with a tube of sunscreen. “It’s not lube, but… this is the best I can do.”
Worth a try. I gesture with two fingers for her to hand me the bottle, which she does, before hopping up to perch on the edge of the porcelain sink. She holds her left hand out for me to take and braces her right hand behind her. I step closer, so I’m slotted between her knees. I squeeze out a bit of the lotion onto her knuckle, careful not to let it drip onto her clothes. I dab it around a bit with the pads of my fingers.
“Tell me if this hurts, okay?”
She nods, which is somewhat unnecessary, because she made it quite clear last time that she has no problem speaking up when it hurts.
I twist the ring around her finger a few times before I pull. I keep my gaze fixed on her face, searching for any sign of discomfort. Because regardless of what I said before, she’s right. We can always go get the damn thing cut off. It’s not worth hurting her over.
Eleanor lifts her head and we’re face-to-face. It’s a ridiculous situation—locked in the bathroom of a bar together while an old Tom Petty song plays over the tinny speakers, trying to remove a wedding band she never should have been wearing in the first place. But for a moment, the details go hazy, swept toward the back of my mind. My focus has narrowed to the tiny freckle on Eleanor’s top lip, barely noticeable unless you’re standing close enough to kiss it.
The ring slips over her knuckle.
I drop my gaze, nearly fumbling the slippery metal. I catch it and hold it between my thumb and forefinger. “Got it.”
Eleanor sucks in a breath and I step back. She wipes her hand against her thigh, getting rid of the sunscreen—the last bit of evidence that she ever wore a ring on that finger.
The nearest pawnshop happens to be one specializing in jewelry. I’m wholly unsurprised when they offer us half of what my credit card record shows we paid last night. Eleanor all but elbows me out of the way to haggle with the guy, which seems like a waste of breath to me—the shop has case after case of rings on display. I doubt he’s going to budge on price.
I leave Eleanor to it and wander down the counter a ways, taking in all the random stuff they have for sale. There are a few nice guitars hanging up behind the counter—a Gibson and a couple of Fender Stratocasters. I linger in front of one of the Strats, a three-color Sunburst with a maple fingerboard. My dad played one just like it early on in his career, before he upgraded to the Les Paul that became his signature instrument. Sometimes I wonder what happened to that first guitar, the one he made it big playing on. When a bunch of his memorabilia went up for auction, I kept an eye out for that particular guitar. I figured it wasn’t worth nearly as much as his others, and if I lived off Top Ramen for a while and maybe sold a couple of my more valuable records, I might be able to afford to buy it. But it wasn’t included in his estate. Most likely, he gifted it to someone along the way. That or he played it into the ground. Still, I see one that looks so similar, even though this Strat isin too good of condition to possibly be his, and I’m always tempted.
What I told Eleanor back at the club was the truth—I never wanted to follow in his footsteps, exactly. I don’t want to be my dad, or really anything like him.
My mother wasn’t one to offer up stories about the version of him she knew, before he hit it big—not the kind of stories I wanted to hear, anyway. They were mostly together before the digital age, and while I’m sure photos of them do exist—or did, once—Mom didn’t keep any evidence of him around the house. Which meant the only way I could try to know him was the same way as the rest of the English-speaking world: through his music.
So no, I didn’t want to follow his path. But there’s no denying he was a big part of why I got into music.
I turn my wrist, just to feel the metal watchband shift against my skin, and drag myself away from the display.
When I finish a loop around the cramped store, Eleanor has reached an agreement with the owner. Fifty whole dollars above his original offer. She looks extremely satisfied at having worn him down, even if it still leaves us about a thousand dollars below what we need to pay off the bar tab.
“How do you propose we pay for the rest?” I ask once we’ve collected our money.
“What about your company card?”
“I don’t think—”
“You were the one who said you’re only in Vegas for business. And we both know Exeter has deep pockets. Just expense it.”
“No way. Cab fare and coffee is one thing. But an expense that big, dated today, is going to raise red flags.” The kinds ofred flags the label is actively looking for, these days. Over the past year they’ve proven they have no problem firing anyone who garners a bad reputation. Look at Griffin Hastings—he was executive level, had been with the label for the better part of two decades, and primarily because of his relationship with Eleanor (and a couple of other workplace indiscretions that cropped up in the aftermath) he was ousted. They’ve been cleaning house, getting rid of anyone who demonstrates any moral ambiguity, as they should. I don’t want to work with fuckers like Griffin. I certainly don’t want to be someone HR has to keep an eye on. “The dead last thing I want is for anyone to find out about this and think you and I are involved.”
