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Chapter One
Cora
Is this real? This cannot be real.
I ball my fingers into loose fists, rub my eyes, and look ahead once more. Yep, still there. Still strutting around like a peacock fanning its tail feathers. How fortunate are we to bear witness to this monumental event? An event we could all live another day without seeing. An event I pray never repeats itself.
For the love of all that is good in this world, please make it end.
On the compact stage of our favorite bar and grill, a seventy-something grandpa wears an eighties rock band muscle tank top, ripped jeans, and faded black Converse high-tops that have seen better days. He holds the mic to his mouth, tips his head back, and belts out the words to Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.” Some might say, what’s the big deal. Let the old man enjoy life. And I would probably agree.
But singing is not all he is doing. Nope. Karaoke grandpa has added a little “show” to his rendition. Giving the crowd something to remember. For life.
Not ten seconds ago, he picked up his full glass of water, tipped his head back, and poured it down his chest, driving us all down wet T-shirt contest lane. The crowd whistles and eggs him on, and he eats up every cheer given. Flaunts his man chest through the wet tank. But wait, it keeps getting better. Now… Some dumbass walked up to the stage and just handed him a soft-serve ice cream cone. Since when did the bar serve…
What the hell is he…
Oh. My. God!
No he isn’t. Please tell me he did not just…
My hands fly up and mask my gaping mouth. My eyes unable to do anything except stare. I shake my head, barely noticeable to anyone not at my table.
How is this happening? How is it I am here right now? This will undoubtedly be scarred into my cerebral cortex for the rest of my life. Marked in my mental scrapbook for years of reference. A tale told to grandchildren to make them laugh at their grandfather.
Not only is grandpa up on the makeshift stage, singing to the world like he is fifty years younger. Not only has he ripped off his wet T-shirt and flashed his elderly man-boobs to the cat-calling natives. Now he has taken his soft-serve vanilla and is smearing it all over his now exposed nipples. But that is not the worst of it. Nope. Not even close. Because he just brought the dripping cone to his lips and is sucking on the dairy confection as if his life depends on it.
Gag!
Somehow, I manage to break my eyes away from the geriatric porn in front of me and glance over at Shelly and Jonas. When I see that both of their expressions are equally as awestruck as mine, all I do is laugh. I have yet to figure out if we are fortunate to have seen this. Or if we are being punished for something. It’s a crapshoot.
“Are you two seeing what I’m seeing?” I ask, already knowing the answer. To be honest, I want to hear their interpretation of it all. There is no way I can be the only one thinking this is nutty as hell. Karaoke Grandpa has definitely fallen off his rocker.
“I think I need to go home and bleach my eyes. Some things cannot be unseen. Some things should never be seen,” Shelly says on a chuckle.
“Mad props to the old-timer. One, such as myself, can only hope I’m that fucking cool when I’m his age,” Jonas states, an echo of pride in his voice. I giggle as he sits taller on his stool.
And when he glances my way, his sweet smile lights up his face. The one that makes the dimple on his left cheek pop. The dimple that makes me question why we are only friends. Why does that damn dimple exist? Ugh.
But deep down, I know the answer. Or at least I believe I know the answer.
Jonas and I have been friends for most of my adult life. Close to ten years. He is sexy as hell and has a heart of gold. And I know he would be there for me in a heartbeat if I needed him. But I am not so sure if he is long-term relationship material. He has had girlfriends in the past, but most of his relationships only stick for a month or two. And I want more in life than a couple months of good times.
I wish I could be one of those women. The ones who have a couple months of great sex and move on. Just go with the w
ind. But I am not engineered that way. Never have been, never will be.
Sometimes, I wonder why his relationships have never made it past the two-month mark. Is there an asshole side to Jonas I don’t know about? Or is it the women who are assholes to him? Does the fun fizzle out at two months? Does he get bored with them? As badly as I want to ask him, I can’t do that. It is none of my business, unless he wants to divulge. But still, I wonder. Often.
I laugh at Shelly and Jonas, slapping my hand on the table for good measure. “Tonight will not be forgotten anytime soon. I guarantee it.”
“Word,” Jonas adds.
His knee brushes mine under the table and I suddenly hear my pulse. Heat flushes my skin and dampens my palms. As much as I know I shouldn’t be in a relationship with Jonas, I can’t ignore the way he causes my heart to beat a little faster. The way my breathing turns a bit ragged. There is something about him. Something I have yet to pin down, but maybe one day I will figure it out. Maybe one day, my heart won’t be overruled by my past.
A change of topic is needed, especially since sticky, sweet grandpa has now left the stage after his standing ovation. Bringing the brown bottle with the label peeling at the corners to my lips, I peer over at Shelly and ponder over the neutral things we can discuss. But I don’t have to worry for long because she comes to my rescue.
“So, anything new or exciting happening with work?” she prompts.
Definite neutral ground. Bless you, my friend. Bless you.
“Yeah. I wrapped up a project for the parks department the other day. It was awesome to visit all the county parks and shoot pictures. I didn’t realize how many parks we have in the area. Anyway, they’re publishing a magazine next month and hoping to get people outdoors more.”
“And why didn’t you ask either of us to tag along while you were taking said photos?” Jonas shoots me with faux guilt. There is that damn dimple again.
Why am I choosing to not date him? The more I am near him, the more interaction we share, the more I ask this question. If only I had a legitimate answer before getting admitted to a psych ward.
“Next time,” I mutter. “My next shoot is on Clearwater Beach, for the most part. It’s an advertisement for beach attire—on the beach and off—including accessories. It will be the first time I’ve worked with Global Beach Magazine, which will be an amazing addition to my resume and portfolio. I’d invite you to watch, but that might be awkward. Not like visiting the park.”
Jonas rests his hand over mine for the count of three, two, one. Breathe, Cora. Breathe.
“When does that start?” he asks as he lifts his hand and rests it beside mine.
“Next week. The first of April. The shoot is spread out over a week. Some indoors, but most on the beach. A few also taken in Dunedin. I’m excited and freaking out at the same time.”
Shelly sets her fruity, pink drink on the table, but twirls the blue drink umbrella. “Why are you freaking out?”
“I have no idea. Every time I think of the shoot, I get this weird twinge in my gut. It’s strange. I’ve never felt this way before a shoot. Maybe it’s because my name will be plastered in a national magazine next to some pretty boy’s face.” I wince and shrug.
Snatching my beer from the table, I chug the rest and hold my bottle up, signaling to the waitress for another round. She catches my request and nods.
