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“Even as opposites?”
He makes a fair point. I understand what he’s saying, and it’s true. My parents didn’t always get along perfectly well—they had disagreements like any other couple. So yes, there had to be attraction in the equation that kept them together during the times when compatibility wasn’t quite enough. But that doesn’t mean attraction trumps everything, which is the side of his point I donotagree with.
“Yes,” I say instead, because it’s not a lie. “Even as opposites.”
He’s silent for a moment, a moment that stretches too long, and just as I’m sure he’s about to hit me with another good point—one I might not be able to shrug off so easily—he alters course.
“What happened at the bar, when they met?” he asks. “Did your dad show up in his three-piece suit and ask the bartender to list their scotch selection?”
“Probably,” I say. “Probably lectured the poor guy on the differences between scotch, whiskey, bourbon, and rye.” I drop my voice to the tone Lexi and I used to use to imitate Dad. “A bartender should know liquor. Scotch and bourbon are types of whiskey. Scotch is made from barley and aged. Bourbon is a mix of grains, mostly corn.”
I catch him smiling.
“Oh,” I say. “You didn’t actually want to know.”
“You couldn’t stop yourself from telling me,” he accuses with a laugh.
Maybe. Probably. “Did you know?”
He doesn’t answer. “Would you throw the drink in the bartender’s face if he used the wrong type of whiskey?”
“If I asked for a perfect Manhattan and he didn’t use rye?”
He laughs again. “Can you imagine the horror?”
Damn. That was a trap and I fell for it. “I’ve never thrown a drink.”
He smiles big now, amused, playing me like a fiddle.
Why is everyone so much better at charming people than I am? I’m supposed to be charming him here, not the other way around.
“What’s the rest of the story?” he asks. “With your parents?”
“Why? Do you want to see how I compare to my father?”
“I know how you compare to your father,” he says. “I’m curious about your mother.”
Huh. No one suggests I’m anything like my mother. The lightness fills me in other places. All the places. “He was there, at the dive bar,” I continue, “drinking inferior scotch. And, to add insult to injury, the bartender served the drink on the rocks. Scotch, on the rocks! The incompetent fool!”
River laughs, and it warms me inside. Because my distraction is working, of course. That’s all it is.
“He’s not about to throw the drink in the guy’s face,” I say, “but he’s ready to leave. His friend is there for the babes, and there are babes, definitely, but they’re not Dad’s type.”
“Dare I ask?”
“He was looking for a proper wife,” I say. “A woman from a nice family who wanted to have kids, stay home, support him. That was the only way he’d accomplish great things, the way his father expected him to. And he knew that kind of woman wasn’t at Tom’s Bar and Grill.”
“No, of course not. Tom’s has fast women and bad liquor.”
This time, I laugh. Has River always been this funny? Charming? Sexy?
No. I’m taking this distraction thing too far, feeling an attraction I shouldn’t. I need to snap out of it. I need to focus on the road, not his dark eyes or his snug jeans or the lines of ink on his right arm.
Is thatallcomic-art style, or just what I can see?
Nope. I’m driving, not gawking. I continue, “So Dad is at Tom’s and he’s about to tell his friend he’ll wait in the car. Then he hears it. The most beautiful voice in the world. This woman, singing about her heartbreak, about how deeply she hurt after a relationship fell apart, and how much she wants someone to put her back together. And he looks at her—and that’s it. He falls in love right there. Or so that’s how the story goes.”
River nods. “Love at first sight.”
