say to a six-foot-four adult man? Be careful? “Stay close, okay? It’ll be dark soon.”
“Yes, Mom,” he says, and disappears into the kitchen again.
“I can’t believe we did it,” I say. “Holy shit.” I turn to James, surprised to find him already next to me.
“Yeah, holy shit,” he says, and then he’s kissing me, right here in the middle of the giant family room, with Melly just next door. He’s kissing me like he might never kiss me again. And then he stops.
“We need to decide what we’re going to do.”
“Do about what?” I ask, momentarily confused.
“The show.” He cups my face, smiling as he kisses me again. “Listen. I want you to have all the information before—”
His attention is suddenly snagged away, eyes searching the windows.
“James?”
“Wait—shh. Do you hear that?”
I turn my head where he’s looking and strain to make out exactly what that sound is. “I think it’s a car?”
It takes all of two seconds for both of us to realize what that means. We run to the kitchen and out the back door, feet pounding on the ground to the other side of the house. The car is gone, and so is Rusty.
Thirty minutes. It takes thirty minutes to find a cab, and another forty to get to the nearest bar. Neon signs cover most of the small windows, and a tiny marquee that simply reads HOTSY TOTSY hangs above the door.
It’s dark inside, but I’m glad. The cramped space smells like stale beer, dusty peanut shells, and cigarettes. I would not want to know what this place looks like when brightly lit. The bottoms of my shoes stick to the linoleum as we make our way across the room and spot Rusty surrounded by a few men playing pool.
“This doesn’t seem so bad,” I say. “A little depressing, but he looks okay. Maybe he just needed to blow off some steam. Rusty’s a happy drunk. He hugs everyone, promises to help them redo their roofs, then is down for the count.”
James seems to consider this. “Okay, new plan. We’ll let him get shitfaced, steal the keys, and then roll him back to the car. I’m worried he’d be more trouble if we try to get him to leave.”
James takes my hand and tugs me toward the bar.
“This looks exactly like the kind of place my dad used to hang out,” I say, sliding onto a stool and waving to the bartender. I motion to a giant mounted fish hanging above shelves of colored liquor bottles. “I think we had that fish in our basement.”
James gives the fish an appraising look as he sits down next to me but still doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead he tugs it into his lap, toying absently with my fingers. “My dad was more of a beer-on-the-patio guy. I know,” he says, waving away my laughter. “He also wears socks with his sandals, so you should know what the future holds.”
The future?
James clears his throat as the bartender stops in front of us, and we each order a drink, thanking him when he steps away.
The silence is heavy for a moment, and just when I think he’s going to let it go, he speaks. “Actually, no.” He spins on his barstool to face me. “There are enough people dicking us around. I don’t want to do that. I think you were right before: we should talk about what it will be like back home.”
“Okay …” I say, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I don’t want this to end.”
I suck in a breath. The music playing seems to pulse and fade with my racing heartbeat.
“I don’t want it to, either.” I swear I have never smiled this much in my entire life. Is this what love feels like? Like your chest is a hot air balloon, and you have to just hold on and go where it takes you?
“Good.” A grin spreads across his face. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
The bartender sets our drinks down on the coasters in front of us.
“But I know who you are.” We both whip around at the sound of a woman’s raised voice near the back of the bar. “I literally just watched you on TV. You’re married to the designer. The blond one!”
Rusty drops onto a stool, a tumbler of clear liquid and ice cubes in one hand and a pool cue in the other.
“The designer.” Rusty snorts. “Let me tell you a little story. Melissa Tripp couldn’t design her own pizza,