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“Hey, everybody . . . how’s it going tonight?” The lead singer pushes his cowboy hat back up off his face a little, smiles, and the crowd lets off a cheer. “We’re The Storm Chasers and we’ll be your entertainment for tonight. Mostly cover songs, but a few of ours will be mixed in as well. We do take requests, so feel free to drop them in the jar.” He fingers the guitar pick up and down his knuckles, grabs it with his thumb, and rips out the first chord. The vibrations pulse through me, something about that sound that gets me every time. Peace washes over me and I settle into my spot. This is home.
THROUGHOUT THE NIGHT, I find my eyes wandering back to the quiet guy sitting at the bar. I don’t know why I am so intrigued by him, but I am. Unlike most of the people here, he doesn’t seem to be into the night crowd and having fun, but instead keeps his eyes shielded under his hat and his body angled to where he can watch the band. Occasionally, he leans over and talks to Rich. The two of them interact like they know each other pretty well, which makes me wonder if he’s local.
I find myself liking the fact that his eyes aren’t wandering over every single girl here. Maybe he has a girlfriend . . . he must have a girlfriend. This thought suddenly saddens me—I don’t know why; it’s not like he’d ever be interested in me anyway. But if he does, I hope she realizes how lucky she is.
My mind drifts to his eyes. When I turned around and mine connected with his, every hair on my arms stood up. It’s dark in here and they were shaded by his hat, but even so, they were so bright, clear, and blue. I was certain that he recognized me by the way his eyes scanned over my face, but it felt like more than recognition. And then he smiled. It was slow, lopsided, and dimples pierced his cheeks. As my heart fluttered in my chest, I quickly catalogued every detail—from his build, the clean smell of his cologne, to the crispness of his shirt—and then pulled myself together. I couldn’t let him know he affected me, couldn’t give him any reason to believe that I was interested, but for the first time in a long time, I wished I was normal.
“You’re staring at him, you know?” Emma slides up next to me and bumps me in the shoulder. She’s spent most of her evening flirting with the guy we met when we walked in, Clay, and I’m glad. Justin, her on and off again boyfriend, has been a little more off lately, and it’s been hard on her.
“I know,” I say, letting out a sigh. “There’s something about him. I can’t put my finger on it, but he looks familiar.” Both of us look his way—he’s talking to Rich again and something said between the two of them causes him to laugh. Even from across the crowded room and past the loud atmosphere, I remember exactly what his laugh and voice sounded like.
When he’d chuckled, the smooth and deep baritone timbre of his voice sent every nerve-ending in my body firing. People’s voices don’t generally strike a particular melodic chord one way or another, but being an expert on tone and pitch, I understand that some are more appealing than others. But I swear, it’s as if the sound of his voice was made just for me, and I could not only hear it, but feel it.
“Yeah, he kind of does, but it could just be that tall, dark, and handsome in a cowboy hat look he’s got going on.”
I laugh at her assessment of him and realize she’s probably right.
“You should go back over there, order another drink, and talk to him.” She gently shoves me in the arm, forcing me to break my stare.
I glance over to her; she’s smirking at me, and I’ll never tell her this, but the way she pushes all the time irritates me and hurts my feelings. “No, I can’t.” She knows this too.
“Yes, you can.” Her tone is more encouraging and compassionate than it is antagonizing, and that makes me feel even worse. I know she thinks it’s way past time for me to let go and move on, and one day I might, but today is not that day.
“When was the last time you tried to talk to a guy?” she asks. My heart sinks, she knows the answer to this and I hate that she’s still pushing.
“You know when,” I snap back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Besides, he hasn’t talked to anyone all night except for Rich. He has to be here with someone, right? I mean, if he came here by himself, that’s kind of weird.”
“Why is that weird? And who cares if he’s here by himself? Dude obviously wanted to go out tonight instead of sitting at home in front of his television, and he isn’t trying to hit up every girl in here. He’s easy on the eyes, so why not go talk to him?”
She glances back to look at him and something stirs in the bottom of my stomach. I don’t want her looking at him, and I don’t want her to think he’s easy on the eyes.
“You’re right. He isn’t trying to meet anyone. A guy like that screams ‘girlfriend.’”
Emma lets out a sigh and looks at me with sadness. I hate that look.
“Tell me about Clay.” I’ve had enough about me and it’s time to turn the tables. Her cheeks redden as she smiles.
“Not much to tell. He hasn’t really talked that much, but when he does, he’s funny. I haven’t stopped laughing all night.” Her eyes are bright; she’s happy.
“Cora and I noticed. We also noticed he can’t keep his hands off of you.” Relaxing a little, I uncross my arms and tuck my hands in my back pockets.
“Oh my God, his hands. The boy doesn’t even need to talk, his hands do enough for him . . . whew.” She takes a step back, starts fanning herself, and then her eyes light up as she glances over my shoulder. “Speak of the devil, we were just talking about you.”
“Oh yeah?” He grins at both of us, handing Emma a drink.
“Yep,” Emma says, scooting a little closer to him. Clay pushes the brim of his hat, tipping it up, and looks down at her adoringly. His features are lighter than that of the guy at the bar who has that rugged, handsome appeal to him; Clay seems more like the boy next door. His eyes are light, his skin coloring is more golden, youthful, with blonde hair curling around the collar of his shirt. His shirt is light blue and inviting, whereas mystery bar guy is wearing black.
My phone vibrates under my hand in my back pocket, and I’m thankful for the interruption. Standing next to the two of them as they stare at each other—no, thanks. Pulling it out, there’s a text from Mona.
Mona: Just got an interesting email. When you’re up, call me.
Me: I’m up, give me five.
Mona: Okay.
“Hey, this is Mona, I’m going to take a step out and call her.” Both of them look at me and surprise flashes on Emma’s face.
“It’s so late; I wonder what she wants?” Emma asks.
