I walk the cemetery grounds, waiting to see his name pop up. Nothing. The wind picks up. My gut tells me to walk back toward my broken-down vehicle. A brush of something dense and snake-like moves across my shoe.
I jump up, my heart lodging in my throat. The trees seem different here, as if filled with the souls of the ones laid to rest on these grounds, waiting anxiously for their next fill. The shadows of their branches reach out to grab me.
I hear a twig crunch as if from soft steps. The flashlight flickers as I rush to the car, but I make it. I give the ignition another go, and it spurs to life.Thankthe Gods. Breaking down next to a cemetery all night is the last thing I need.
I’ve been driving well over thirty minutes, doing multiple circles around this tiny bayou town. Thinking hard about the fact that my uncle’s grave was nowhere to be found. Perhaps they cremated him, but then where are his remains? The thought ruminates in my head until I can hold it no more.
I find a small bar that doesn’t even seem as if it's open, but the door swings wide and the sound of conversation over music floats through the open windows of the car. I decide to go in. Maybe a local bar full of strangers is just what I need to clear my mind. It’s dark and smoky like the bars of Detroit, but the very jazzy music changes that comparison in an instant.
Full of people all around talking and watching the stage, where a beautiful leggy woman with dark skin is singing a sorrowful tune. Pulling me in as if roots sinking into the bayou. I’ve never heard a more haunting song. I sit and watch in a trance, like everyone else who is just as captivated by this marvelous melodiccreature.
When she is done, she bows and walks offstage. The man, who must own the bar, pops on the mic and tells everyone to give Miss Cypress a round of applause. Even here in the depths of civilization, the trees hold their ownership.
The next act comes on the saxophone, playing a more upbeat, buzzy tune. Its jovial beat making me grasp the reality I find myself in. I look to the bar then, no longer a slave to the song. My drink of choice tonight is a whiskey sour, not my usual, but maybe embracing something new is just what I need.
I feel him before I see him, his eyes fixed from a darkened corner. Ry. Thankfully, the smoky darkness of the bar keeps from revealing the relief on my face that he is here. This man is a drug, and I can’t stop with just a taste.
He radiates toxicity, and for whatever reason, I am drawn to it, especially now that he is near. But I don’t want him to see the pleasure on my face, not after the way he treated me and then ghosted for weeks, which I guess is just as much my fault as his.
He strolls up behind me, leaning down to whisper in my ear.
“I can’t tell whether our meeting like this is a good thing or a bad thing. What do you think?” His breath is hot and smells of caramel bourbon. I love the way his words linger on my skin. I shiver. He must feel me underneath him.
“Mmmm yes, I agree,” he purrs, and I can feel him grinning next to my ear.
I spin around on my barstool, thinking he will back up, but he doesn’t. Acting as if we haven’t just spent weeks avoiding each other. His hands brace the bar over me, so our faces are almost touching as I look up at him. Eyes linked. Mine in defiance, his in challenge.
What our gaze says in those four minutes could fill the room. There is only us, and it has been this way time and time again. But he disrespected my boundaries. Acting as if he held sway in what I do. Who I see. I won’t allow it.
His hand reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, thencomes to rest on the dip where my waist meets my hip.Damn his hands.I look down at it, wishing him away no longer.Damn my reaction to him.He moves his hand down lower to grasp tighter. My body responds. He tips my chin up, so we are eye to eye yet again.And damn his eyes.
In a room full of strangers, I can tell it is no coincidence we found each other in this bar tonight. It was always meant to be.
“Let’s go,” his voice is as rough as his grip, and I can tell he feels as on edge as I do. If I give in now, I’m done for. There is no going back.
Letting my body guide me, I take his hand as he leads me out of the bar and right into his car. And in that moment, I know, I never stood a chance.
24
TOWNHOUSE
RACINE 1978
The moment we are in the car, he puts it in drive. Stillness stretches across the distance between the two front seats. His jaw, held tight as if he is deciding what he wants his next move to be. I know what I want it to be. My want, I hope selfishly, rubs off on him.
His hand grips the steering wheel fiercely, as if he is battling against his own free will. Less than ten minutes later, we park in front of a house that also must double as an office.
Is this his house? The sign on the door confirms it.Ry Heart Estate Lawyerit reads in bold white lettering. The quiet eats the air between us for far too long, giving the impression he may not want to see where the next move will take us.
“Well, I guess I’ll be getting out then.” I say, annoyed at his indecisiveness, which clearly has something to do with the war going on in his head.
The road is empty of traffic, and I get out of the car, looking around. Although it is dark, I can see he lives in a unique part of town screaming of old money. The houses stand tall and strong. Boldly emanating their own level of elegance with their gothic styled architecture.
Ry curses under his breath, and slams the car door as he exits. Here we go again.
“Follow me,” he demands. I am not normally one for men bossing me around, but I follow anyway through an odd instinct I’ve never been compelled to heed before until him.
He is unlocking the door when I decide to put my hand on his arm. The electricity that shoots through us is sharp and unmistakable. A charge not of this world, begging me to touch him again.
