Georgie, All Along (76)

She laughs lightly, waving off that excuse as she slides awkwardly off her stool and stretches her arms above her head, as if she’s already getting herself limber for tonight.

“Georgie Mulcahy,” she says, “from what I’ve been seeing the last few weeks, wherever you are is that man’s scene.”

*

THE BEND IS probably no place for a pregnant person. There’s no smoking allowed in here anymore, thank goodness, and the place overall—big, U-shaped bar and a dining area that gives way to a dance floor—is cleaner, more spacious, and better lit than the way I pictured it back when I was young. Still, the music is loud and so are the people, and drinks get served in big portions and with the kind of quickness that suggests no one except the night’s designated drivers stay sober all that long. When the three of us first walked in a half hour ago—Levi’s set to meet us after he finishes up work—Harry took one look around and I was pretty sure he was going to grab Bel’s hand and walk right back out.

But he must have gotten a version of the same speech she gave me earlier today, because he only clenched his jaw and continued to seem suspicious of everything. Bel told me he called the doctor three times to ask whether coming here was okay, and also there’s a blood pressure cuff in the back seat of the car they picked me up in.

Now that we’re here, though, both of us can see it: Bel is having the best time.

Harry and I are newly installed at a table that’s just come available, ignoring our menus and watching Bel finish up her conversation over at the bar, where we’d been waiting. She’s talking animatedly to Melanie Froggart, who used to be Melanie Dinardo when we were in high school. Melanie was nice enough back then, though my opinion of her suffered because of her attachment to Mrs. Michaels, who rightly thought Melanie had the best singing voice in our class and gave her any solo there was to be had. Melanie never learned my alternative lyrics to “The Circle of Life,” and I know I can’t hold it against her. She looked about as happy as a clam to see Bel was expecting, because she’s got one toddler at home and another baby on the way in about five months’ time.

So, I guess The Bend is a place for pregnant people.

“She shouldn’t be on her feet,” says Harry. I look over at him, catch his brow furrowed in an expression I’ve gotten used to ever since that night at the hospital. When Bel’s around, he keeps the brow furrowing in the I-am-sensible-and-in-control range; right this second, though, it has a sort of I-am-in-a-constant-state-of-mortal-terror vibe to it, and my heart clutches for him.

“She’s okay, Harry.”

He adjusts his cuffs—because he is wearing a very nice dress shirt in a not-all-that-nice bar—and leans back in his chair, though he keeps his eyes on Bel. She’s wearing a short, floral-print maternity dress with a denim jacket over top, and she’s got on a pair of old cowboy boots that we found a couple of weeks ago in a box of her mom’s stuff. In her left hand she’s holding a bottle of root beer. She fits right in.

“Now,” I say, picking up my menu, determined to distract Harry until Bel comes over. “This place used to be famous for its fried rockfish, but I don’t think any of us should get that, since Bel’s off seafood. Do you like hot dogs? There’s ten different ways they serve a hot dog here. Can she have hot dogs?”

He finally looks over at me, giving me a grateful, embarrassed smile. “Ten different ways?”

I nod enthusiastically, immediately launching into a summary. I’m on the Philly cheese hot dog when Bel comes over, waving her phone back and forth.

“We exchanged numbers!” she announces, lowering herself into the chair beside Harry, leaning over to smack a kiss on his cheek. “She said we can do play dates, isn’t that great?” Then she looks over at me. “She also said you’re even more adorable than you were in high school.”

“Ha,” I say, batting my lashes dramatically and pretending to smooth my hair. The truth is, I took extra time with my appearance tonight, too—I’m wearing my favorite pair of vintage jeans with a drapey, marigold-colored cotton tank that I’ve always thought looked nice with my coloring. I’ve even got makeup on, because in the fic, makeup was a feature—the key, I’d thought, to getting in without having our IDs checked.

While Harry and Bel bend their heads together over his menu, I take a few seconds to take it all in, to remind myself of other parts of the fic that involved The Bend. The dance floor isn’t too crowded, but there are a few small groups of people shuffling distractedly to the twanging sounds of country music, leaning in to talk to each other over the noise, leaning back to laugh. At the bar, there’s a group of guys clustered at one end, all of them staring up in rapt attention at something on the TV I can’t see, until they all let out a collective groan, nudging each other and shaking their heads. Two tables away from us, a woman holds up her phone to her three companions, who all lean in and gasp. Then they dissolve into cackles, one of them slapping her palm down on the table with barely contained glee, rattling the rickety table.

I’m not sure preteen me got the full import of what this place offered, but nearly thirty-year-old me does: The Bend is about blowing off steam, and I’m suddenly so grateful Bel insisted we come. While I never made it to this bar back when I lived here, my life after Darentville had, for a while, involved this kind of night—in Richmond, when I was waitressing, my fellow servers and I would often go out after shifts, and my early gigs on sets sometimes involved similar after-work bonding and bitching sessions. Working with Nadia, I’d definitely gotten out of the habit. And while I like my coworkers at The Shoreline, there’s no denying the way I keep a measure of distance, the not-quite but not-quite-not secret of Levi always at the front of my mind.