Whisper Me This(54)
“Thanks, Cass,” he says.
“You got it, babe.” She smooths her hair as she smiles at him, and then sashays away with a sway of the hips that tells me she has not failed to notice his hotness. Hell, they know each other. Maybe they’ve dated. Maybe they are dating now.
And why should that matter to me? Still, I watch her with a tiny shard of envy pricking at my heart, wishing I’d been born with those sorts of curves, that easy ability to smile and chat and be amusing.
Tony lifts his glass. “Cheers,” he says.
“She forgot your mug.” I gesture at the pitcher and his half-empty water glass.
“She remembered just fine.” He says it casually, but there’s a flat finality in his tone that means this topic is closed for conversation.
I ask anyway. “Not a drinker?”
“Not so much.” He smiles, but it’s not a real one this time. His eyes drop to the table, and he grabs a handful of peanuts and starts shelling them, making a little pile of shells on one side, peanuts on the other.
I pick up a peanut of my own, but just turn it over and over in my fingers. The vibe between us has shifted into a minor, discordant key. My fault for persisting with the nosy question. I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter whether I’ve pissed him off or why he doesn’t drink. But the people I know who swear off alcohol are all either former alcoholics or severely religious. If I’m going to have Tony around Elle, I tell myself, it’s important to know. For Elle. Not that it matters to me.
“My father was a drinker,” Tony says, glancing up and meeting my eyes with an intense blue gaze. “A very good drinker. Meaning he could consume more than his temper could handle on a regular basis. Kind of put me off the stuff for myself.”
“I’m sorry.” Whether I’m apologizing for my having asked, for his father having been an angry drunk, or for the messed-up state of the universe altogether, I’m not entirely sure.
And then it doesn’t matter because the door opens down below and a group of people come in, carrying instruments.
The band has arrived.
I’m on my feet and leaning over the railing before I realize that my body has decided to relocate. There are two men, one with a dark ponytail down the middle of his back, the other wearing a baseball cap. But I have eyes only for the woman.
I get only a quick glimpse of her face before she sails up the steps onto the stage. She walks like my mother, with the same quick, confident steps. It’s instantly clear that she’s the boss. The men defer to her, listen, follow her lead like sunflowers follow the sun.
Marley waves to the tattooed guy at the sound booth. A smile changes his face from thug to lover in a heartbeat. And then her head turns, and her eyes scan the rest of the balcony, casually assessing.
What if she recognizes me? What if she doesn’t? I hold my breath, waiting, but her eyes pass over me as if I’m invisible. She says something to her companion. He laughs and opens his guitar case. My legs have turned to mush, and my fingers have grown roots into the railing. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. Can’t anything.
And then I feel Tony beside me. Breathe in the scent of leather and shampoo and a hint of wood smoke. “Excited?” he asks. “You must have access to way bigger bands than this, coming from Kansas City.”
“We don’t get out much,” I tell him. Maybe later I’ll tell him the truth. Maybe I won’t.
Mia and Elle join us, surrounded by an energy cloud of enthusiasm and excitement. Mia is holding a glass half-full of ale, clearly not following in Tony’s path of abstinence.
“I put the eight ball in the corner pocket,” Elle says. “Oh wow. There she is. Right up close and personal. She looks fantastic, don’t you think?”
There is no doubt that my sister looks amazing.
She’s wearing a sparkly black shirt, form-fitting, and spandex pants with cowboy boots. Either she’s spent more time at the gym than I have, or she has inherited better genes. Her blonde hair is braided in a thick rope. She has one of those expressive faces made for the stage.
The lights come up behind her, the band starts checking the tuning on their guitars. Marley doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t introduce the band. Just plays a chord, makes eye contact with each of her band members in turn, and starts to sing.
The band is tight, polished, but she dominates the stage. Her voice is conviction. The room is hers. The world is hers.
She is the daughter my mother always wanted, the person I forever failed to be. She is also, inexplicably, the daughter my mother abandoned.
I am utterly undone by the reality of this perfect sister. My knees, jelly before, become nonexistent. They are going to drop me.
I’m saved by a strong warm hand at the small of my back, a voice in my ear telling me to come and sit. Tony supports me back to my chosen table and into a chair. His attention, unlike every other human in this room, is not on Marley but is fully focused on me. He sits across from me, arms resting on the table, blue eyes and all his attention mine.
He is an anchor, a bulwark. My breathing adapts to his, the slow breath in, the easy breath out, and little by little bees stop buzzing in my ears. My heart settles into an easier rhythm.
“Better?” he asks.
“Better.”
He shoves his water glass across the table, and I accept the hint and drink, slowly, letting the sensation of cool liquid on my tongue ground me in my own body even as the music keeps trying to sweep me away.