Bar Crawl(4)

“Ladies.” Lex held out his arm, welcoming them into our conversation as if he’d been waiting for them all night.

At the sound of their giggles, I found my eyes searching for Frankie. She didn’t look like a giggler to me. I watched her and her guy friend walk over to a group of people they hadn’t arrived with. Her back was to me, but I paused my eyes long enough to study the group. They were clean, if not slightly reserved, and wore slightly tired looks around their eyes while they laughed in between animated conversation. Some of them tried a little too hard to be sexy, as if they exploded out of their clothes at the end of a long work week.

Teachers. I’d bet money on it.

The girls in front of me, though? If they were out of college—and I couldn’t be sure of that without hearing them talk—I’d put them in corporate America. The kind of place that doesn’t mind the cleavage I was sure they showed on a daily basis.

Finance. No. Real estate.

Girl number one tilted her head to the side. “You guys looked great up there.”

Definitely real estate. She paid attention first to how we looked over how we sounded.

“Thanks.” I grinned suggestively as I snapped myself out of my little game. “Are you girls from around here? I haven’t seen you in here before, and I know I’d remember faces like yours.”

Before I knew it, I was sucked back in. Same script, different actors as my supporting roles. The bat of an eyelash and the innocent touch of my hand to her arm—Leslie was her name—and I was “that guy” again. Funny, sexy, repeating the last few words she said to let her think I was paying attention, when really I just wanted to know how her breasts might feel in my hands. Or against my tongue.

Minutes turned into hours, and before I knew it, it was time to close the deal. Leslie would be going home with me, and Lex would take her friend. It worked out for them, they’d murmured between themselves, since Lex and I were roommates and they could still “keep an eye on each other.”

As they wandered off to the restroom before we left the bar, I found myself looking over my shoulder. It was only then that I’d remembered the object of my look back. Frankie. And she was gone.

Damn it.

I had no idea how long ago she’d left, or what she saw of me before she did. Whatever it was, it was highly unlikely to help my chances with her should I be lucky enough to see her a third time.

As I led Leslie to my car—not having to plan the rest of our evening, since it was pretty much on autopilot—I thought about what my next move with Frankie might be. I couldn’t leave seeing her again up to chance. And, for some reason, I couldn’t let her think that I was actually the guy she saw play acting in the bar. Maybe it was her blatant disregard of me that had me excited initially—an old fashioned game of cat-and-mouse was always fun. But, more than that, she seemed to always be paying attention while I was playing with the band. Sure, most people bop along to songs—especially to their favorites—but I’d caught her noticing changes we’d made to certain songs. She’d grin at an extra solo or widen her eyes at a complex drum solo we’d thrown into an otherwise simple or well-worn song. She noticed.

But what was I willing to tell her about who I really was?





Frankie


A week later, I was at my post amidst the stacks of the public library. Working in the quiet solitude of my mecca was the best way I’d found to unwind after a stressful week. Teaching English was hard. Really hard. However, I was thankful my teachers had done what they did to open my eyes to the beautiful world of this language, and I always aimed to pass that down to my students.

Language is powerful, and walking among millions—maybe billions—of words as I re-shelved books was far from overwhelming. Quite the opposite, actually. It was comforting. Words were my people.

I liked slightly dusty hardcovers that had threads in their binding the best. While my e-reader allowed me to carry all of my favorite books at once, no matter where I went, there was something to the feel and the weight of an actual book that couldn’t be replicated by technology.

“Hey!” A loud whisper startled me as I ran my fingers across the worn, embossed title of The Other Boleyn Girl.

“Shit!” I loud-whispered, whipping around as my heart pounded.

There, in the early light of that Saturday morning that streamed magnificently through the stained glass window, stood CJ. The drummer. The pig. The drummer pig.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.” He put his hands in his pockets and gave a little shrug.

I cleared my throat, scraping together equilibrium as I went along. “Didn’t think you could come out in the daytime. Doesn’t the light hurt your eyes?” I brushed past him and wheeled my cart to the next set of stacks, wondering what in the love of God he was doing in Hyannis, and at the library.

My library.

“Funny.” He kept his voice respectfully quiet as he followed me. “Told you I’d see you next week.”

That he had. The determination that had swaddled his voice in the bar the last time I saw him replayed in my ears.

“You’re late,” I quipped.

“Huh?”

“You said you’d see me next week. That was on a Friday. Today is Saturday, so you’re a day into the second week.” I took a deep breath, tucked my hair behind my ears, and resumed my task.