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At this point Graham returns with our drinks and sets them in front of us. Mine is hazy, just the way I like it, and hers looks like a rainbow.
“All right, here on the front you can see what they are, and the descriptions are on the board and on the menu. Is there anything else I can get for you?” he asks.
I just shake my head no.
He nods in acknowledgment. “Hope y’all enjoy.” And with that he wanders to the other end of the bar to give us some privacy.
I glance over at what she has: Down in the Valley, a cider made with blackberries; Silly Rabbit, a fruity cereal sour; Apple Muffin, a cider and a PBJ sour. I’m not sure any of those sound good to me.
Picking up my glass, I take a sip. The IPA is bitter, citrusy, and delicious.
“You’ve always had a stutter?” she asks, picking up the first one and taking a sip. She doesn’t cringe so it must not be terrible.
“Yep. It was worse as a kid. I’ve been through a lot of therapy to try to overcome it. It’s definitely better now. I had hoped to grow out of it, but nope.”
“You don’t stutter when you sing. At least you didn’t at the wedding, and you haven’t in the past.”
In the past . . . I know I’ve focused on just her whenever I see her playing with her friends, but it never occurred to me that she would be watching me too.
I like it. A lot.
“Paid attention, huh?” I pop one brow, and her cheeks turn pink.
“I might have,” she says, a sad, distant expression briefly making an appearance as she picks up the second glass and takes a sip. Her face scrunches up at the flavor, and she catches me watching her. “Too sweet.”
Next, she takes a sip of the third one. I can’t help but watch her mouth on those tiny glasses, the way her bottom lip rolls out as she leans the glass against it. I love her mouth, and I hate that I’m noticing it and her so much. Just because she says she’s not with that guy, doesn’t mean she won’t change her mind. Six years is a long time, and I refuse to compete with that.
“Yeah, I don’t stutter often when singing. There are a lot of explanations out there about stuttering and singing. One is that singing and music come from the right side of the brain, while language uses the left. Another is that when singing, we use our vocal cords, tongue, and lips differently than when just speaking. The pressure to produce words is different, it’s a fluency and sound thing. I don’t know.”
She picks up the fourth glass and takes a sip. Her brows rise; she’s pleased.
“I’ve always known you could sing, but you turned it up like five notches at the wedding. I’m surprised Cora didn’t have to pick my jaw up off the floor.”
I’ve known for a long time that I have a nice singing voice. After all, I am the backup vocals to Ash, but upon hearing her say this, pride at her apparent pleasure over me singing fills the empty spaces in my chest.
“There are a lot of singers who stutter: Elvis Presley, B.B. King, Carly Simon,” I tell her.
“I did know of a few, but it’s not anything I’ve ever really thought about or associated with them. I just like them and their music. It’s funny, I guess everyone really does have something, right? Even the most famous people in the world.”
I appreciate her way of thinking and her outlook. Most people do have something, and like her, I couldn’t care less about what it is. If I like you, I like you. If I don’t, I don’t.
One half of my mouth tips up as I give her side eye. “Really? What’s your something?”
She flips her ponytail over her shoulder and glares at me with wide eyes. “Have you seen me? I’m small. Like stupidly small.”
My gaze trails over the length of her, and I can’t help the smile that grows. In return she rolls her eyes.
Yeah, I’ve seen her, and I’ve always really liked what I see. It’s funny how she views that as a flaw while I’ve always found her adorable and beautiful.
“You look fine to me,” I tell her, and I mean it.
“Yeah, well, you sound fine to me, too.”
“Which is your favorite?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Definitely the PBJ sour. It’s interesting how they got the fruit and peanut butter flavor combo. We might have to take some home.”
“All right.”
