Stevie is saying something to me about Mom, when she and Dad will arrive ahead of the rehearsal dinner tomorrow. I hear only half of it as I scan the room, neck craning, searching, nerves tingling up and down my arms.
When I spot him through the crowd, on the opposite side of the room, I fully tune her out. He’s behind the bar, angled away from me as he talks to tonight’s bartender.His arms are folded in front of him, hands on his biceps, a worn flannel I want to take off him and burrow into every night rolled up to reveal his forearms.
He laughs, throwing his head back, and then sees me out of the corner of his eyes. He’s already smiling, but now his whole face lights up, andhow didn’t I see it before.I want to reach into the past and shake myself—He’s right there! Look up for two seconds!It’s like my blood flows faster as I take stock of the tiny ways he’s changed in the last four months. The messy wave of his hair, the sharp line of his jaw. Maybe none of it is actually new. Maybe each time I’ve seen him again, he’s been this perfect.
He rounds the corner of the bar and weaves through the crowd toward me. Stevie keeps gabbing, and all of a sudden I’m finding it hard to move.
Ren is a few feet away now, and he’s real, and then he’s scooping me up into his arms, and I’m nestling my face just below his shoulder, inhaling, every synapse in me firing. Relief like I’ve never felt before, that I didn’t even know I needed, washes through me.
“Hi,” he says, low, in my ear.
“Hi,” I say over a tightness in my throat at how good it is to be wrapped up in him, at every feeling I’ve been sorting through since Boston. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
He leans just his head back, smiling down at me, our bodies still pressed together. I risk hanging on to him a second longer.
Stevie coughs.
We both whip our heads around. I’m the first to let go, Ren’s hands dropping from me as I turn to her.
“I need a drink,” she says.
Ren nods us in the direction of the bar, ducking behind it while we stand at one end. He’s not bartending tonight, but he makes us our drinks before sidling back out.
“Hey,” I say, motioning up at the stage where a lanky,golden-haired guy is fiddling with a mic stand while another sets up a drum kit, the nameBearcaton the kick drum. “Weren’t they in Boston?” I remember them—an indie rock group we saw at the festival.
“Yeah,” he says. “We just signed them.”
“Seriously? And they still didn’t give you an A&R position?” Indignation flashes through me.
“It’s fine,” he says. Something in his face wavers for a second, but then he’s smiling down at me in a way that has me wanting to sink back into him.One thing at a time, I tell myself.Try to enjoy being back together before you start overanalyzing every tiny thing, Joni.
We walk over to the stage, where he jumps up to assist with setup. He holds a hand out to help me up, then reaches down for Stevie.
“Hey, Leo,” he calls to the lead singer as he unravels a cord. “This is Joni.”
I shake Leo’s hand. “This is—” I turn, but Stevie is squatted down at the front of the stage, brow furrowed as she reads over their setlist.
“Is ‘Kiss on My List’ just a cover, or do you have your own song called that?” she asks no one in particular as she straightens. “Because I think you’d be better off with a different Hall and Oates song. ‘Private Eyes,’ maybe?”
She pivots toward us, and her gaze locks on to Leo. She lifts her glass to her mouth but misses her straw, tongue searching for it.
“Stevie, this is Leo,” I say slowly. My eyes flick to Ren’s across from me. He’s grabbed a guitar, pick between his teeth, and he matches my expression at the way Stevie’s acting. “Leo, St—”
“Stevie,” he cuts in, bypassing me and walking over to my sister. “I’ll sing ‘Private Eyes’ tonight if you want.”
Stevie shrugs a shoulder, straw finally in her mouth. “If you want to,” she says casually,but I can see the way she fiddles with her skirt.
I watch the two of them talk in ever-shortening sentences, bantering back and forth as their bodies drift closer. Ren steps around them to me, twisting the tuning pegs of the guitar as he plucks at the strings.
“Are they—” he says, glancing between Stevie and Leo.
“Iknow,” I say, fascinated by whatever strange mating ritual is unfolding in front of us. Stevie is usually a hi-and-goodbye type of person, sure that they’ll find her if they want her. But now, she’s smiling, fiddling with her hair, giving no indication of leaving.
The two of us study them in awe. Ren eventually leans over and sets the guitar on its stand, and I’m drawn away from the conversation and back to his movements, the flex of the tendons in his forearms, the height difference between us when he straightens again. “Hey,” he says, grazing a hand against me that feels as good as if he’d slid it under my clothes. “Want to put your coat in the back room?”
I’d hardly realized I was still wearing it. I shuck it off, begin to fold it over my arm before Ren grabs it from me and tosses it over his shoulder.
“Come on,” he says, jerking his head in the direction of a door marked Employees Only at the side of the stage.
