Page 45 of Hauling Ashe

I slide onto the bench as my mind runs through tunes. I’m so out of practice this could be an epic fail. Like walking away from the band. Like giving up on a dream. I glance up at Mae. Her elbow is bent on the bar, her chin propped in her hand. She’s giving me the dreamiest look and I imagine playing the piano for a woman like her back when I was in my twenties. When I was young and didn’t need to hit on women because they hit on me. Mae would have been the type of girl I should have come on to. She would have been the right woman for me.

A song comes to mind and I’m curious if I’ll remember it correctly. Placing my fingers on the cool keys, I press down. The trill notes vibrate into the bar where overhead music and the chatter of patrons still rings higher than the sound. I ripple my fingers over the keys as a warmup, and a current of energy prickles up my arms. Adrenaline surges through me and my blood flows like rapid rivers. I feel alive like I haven’t felt in a long time, and I repeat the rumbling down the length of the keys before settling in place.

Hitting the first note, the harmony comes back to me. Lawson and I wrote this song about not letting go of the woman of our dreams. I don’t know if he ever found his. He’d been best friends with his sister, and the relationship was one I didn’t understand. I thought she’d hold him back. I was wrong.

As the notes flow and the rhythm falls into line, I’m transported back in time while fully present where I sit—a dark bar in Texas trying to apologize to a woman I hardly know, and yet who knows more about me than anyone at this point. The melody leaves my fingertips and floats over the keys, stirring up a swirl of dust coating my memories. The song carries on and when I hit the last note, I’m almost melancholy to finish. Staring down at my fingers, bent over keys I haven’t touched in over twenty-five years, something swells in my chest and my vision blurs.

Damn, that felt good.

I blink and look up, registering that a few people closest to the piano clap. Mae remains at the bar, a hand over her mouth. Her eyes wide.

“That was so beautiful,” she says on a whisper when I return to my stool. “The song sounded so familiar, but I can’t place it.”

“It’s old. It’s called ‘Sand’ by Colt45.” Our band name stumbles off my tongue, sticky and unfamiliar. I don’t talk about them often. I say the name rarely.

“Oh my gosh, I loved that song when I was younger.” Mae hums off key and I’m certain she has the lyrics wrong in her head as she does with most songs. Only, she opens her mouth, and the words fly out.

“I’m an hourglass. You’re the sand. I won’t let you slip away.” She’s close but not quite. Still, she continues. “Fragile but strong, this can’t be wrong. I’ll hold you close. I won’t let you slip away.”

Her eyes widen as she looks at me. “You used song lyrics to hit on me?” She shrieks before laughing and slapping my shoulder. “That’s cheating.”

It might have been, if that song wasn’t mine. Written almost thirty years ago, the lyrics are more appropriate than ever. I don’t want to let Mae slip away.

20

TEXAS – DAY 4

Playlist: “Deep in the Heart of Texas” – Gene Autry

[Mae]

Shit. I drank too much. I hadn’t been sloppy drunk or ready to vomit but those margaritas had been strong, and I downed them too fast. When we eventually walked back to the hotel, my limbs were heavy, and my body swayed. I might have been slurring my words. There’s also a heavy weight at the base of my spine as I lay flat on my belly on a diagonal across my hotel bed. Opening my eyes, I glance down the side of my body to find Tucker next to me, his head on my lower back. One arm drapes over the backs of my thighs. He’s scrunched up into a corner of the bed, holding onto me like a life preserver of sorts. I’m still wearing my dress from last night, minus my bra somehow. Everything else feels intact as I’m certain we didn’t do anything, not even kiss.

What I’m slightly shaky about are the details of him being in my room. With the marching band in my head, I can’t recall all that was said last night.

Reaching awkwardly for his head, I brush over his short hair and he startles. Lifting his head, he stares down at my covered backside. His hand coasts up the back of my thighs, and over my dress, before his head twists. He notices me gazing at him over my shoulder.

“Good morning,” I croak, my throat dry. My tongue feels like I licked a cat.

“Hey.” His greeting cracks and he shifts, flipping himself to his back in the sliver of space on the bed. “How are you feeling?” He rolls his head and rubs a hand down his chest. Last night, he wore a dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a pair of suit pants to the bar. Presently, he’s still wearing his pants, minus his shirt and belt. His firm chest is on display. His leather strap necklace rests on his sternum. He was overdressed for the small-town tavern, drawing attention to himself with his good looks. Or was it the music? He played the piano last night and I’d held my breath at his rendition of “Sand,” a sultry ballad song about someone slipping away and someone else not wanting them to go.

“I definitely overindulged,” I grumble, tipping to my side and placing a hand over my forehead. I’m an idiot, because riding in a car today with a hangover might be a nightmare, not to mention that even though I’ve slept, I don’t feel rested. “How did you end up in here?”

I’m horrified that I might have coerced him into my room. Did I hit on him? He explained what happened in his past—all those women wanting him despite his faithfulness to his wife. He even explained how it wasn’t me so much as a gut reaction when I asked for his number on the street that first morning.

“You’re making up for having my suit cleaned with this trip.” That made me laugh.

Did he open up more about Rochelle being unfaithful to him in the end? I’m certain he did. He told me he’d filed for divorce before she took that trip with her lover. His use of the word would be almost comical, except I don’t know how else to describe a person one has an affair with. He or she is not a spouse. They are not the person one took vows with, made promises to, or hitched a life around.

“I was worried you’d get sick. After I walked you in here and you passed out on the bed, I went back to my room and grabbed my things. Brought them back here.”

I sit upright and notice his bag in the corner of the room.

“I’m sorry you lost out on that money.”

He rolls to his elbow and peers at me. “It was worth it.” Those silvery eyes flicker with mischief and I see that man women would have hit on over the years.

Hesitantly, I lick my lips. “Did I hit on you?” I close my eyes.