All We Ever Wanted(10)

I’ll never forget the first moment I laid eyes on Beatriz. I was sitting in a dive bar in Five Points, back when East Nashville had not yet become a hipster hangout and had all been a dive. My dive. It wasn’t the kind of spot you’d expect to see a beautiful girl, especially all alone, but she walked in solo, which was kind of alluring in and of itself. She happened to also be my type, with dark hair and eyes, bronzed skin, plenty of curves. The tight red dress didn’t hurt her cause, either.

“Don’t even think about it,” I said to my buddy John without averting my gaze.

John laughed. “Who? The J.Lo lookin’ one?”

I said yeah, her.

“Why? Did ya fuck her?” John asked, chewing on a straw, watching her as she approached us. He was the kind of loud, good-looking guy that hot girls gravitated toward, especially in bars late at night.

“No. But I’m gonna try,” I said with a laugh. “And then I might marry her.”

John laughed. “Yeah. Oookay,” he said, hopping off his stool. He slapped me on the back, and when she was within earshot, he added, “Good luck with that, buddy.”

   She glanced at him, then smiled at me, clearly aware of why he thought luck was needed.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing to the now free stool.

“Yes,” I said, catching a whiff of her hair. It smelled like that suntan oil girls slathered on themselves. Coconut, I guess. I tried to think of something clever to say but came up blank, so I just said the truth. “I don’t do pickup lines, but…you’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” Then, realizing how cheesy that sounded, I stupidly added, “In this bar.”

“In this bar?” she asked with a low, sexy laugh as I noticed that her left front tooth was adorably crooked. She looked around, glancing purposefully at a group of not very pretty girls sitting on the other side of me.

“Okay, fine. Anywhere,” I clarified, no longer caring if I sounded cheesy. She was that pretty.

“And that’s not a pickup line?” she said, as I noticed a trace of an accent. Even better.

I shook my head and stammered, “No….Well, maybe it is….But I don’t want to just pick you up. I want to know you…everything about you….”

She laughed that laugh again. “Everything?”

“Everything,” I said, then rattled off questions. “What’s your name? How old are you? Where are you from?”

“Beatriz. Twenty-five. Rio,” she said, the last word rolling from her full lips, stained the exact shade of her dress.

“In Brazil?”

She smiled and asked if I knew of another Rio as the bartender approached her. Without hesitating like most girls do, she ordered a drink I’d never heard of, rolling more r’s. She did the reach for her oversize woven bag that looked like it should smell of pot, or at least incense, as I put my hand on hers. “I have a tab,” I said.

   She smiled, staring into my eyes. “Do you also have a name?”

“Tommy…Tom…Thomas,” I said—because people called me all three.

“Which do you prefer?” she asked.

“Whichever you prefer,” I said.

“I want to dance, Thomas,” she said, throwing her shoulders and hair back.

I was pretty stoked that she picked my full name, but I shook my head on the dancing. “Anything but that,” I said with a laugh.

She gave me a fake pout, and I said a prayer that someday soon we’d be close enough for real pouting, explosive fights, and passionate making up. “Please?” she said with a tilt of her head.

“I can’t dance,” I confessed as the bartender finished making her drink and placed it in front of her.

“Everyone can dance,” she said, swaying her shoulders to “Free Bird.” “It’s just moving to music.” She squeezed the lime into her drink, then stirred it with her skinny straw before taking her first sip. As I watched her lips curve around the glass and her hair fall forward around her face, I had a little trouble breathing. I glanced away, contemplating another drink for myself. I already had a decent buzz but could’ve used a little more liquid courage. I decided against it, though, wanting to remember everything about our conversation, and asked what she was doing in Nashville. She told me she was an au pair for twin toddlers in Brentwood but had the weekend off. She said she’d chosen Nashville because of the music scene.

“Are you a musician?” I asked, intrigued, though musicians were a dime a dozen around here.

She nodded. “I’m a singer. Trying to be anyway.”

“What kind of music?”

“Sertanejo. It’s like Brazilian country….Music about partying and love…and heartbreak…”

   I nodded, entranced. “Maybe you’ll sing for me sometime?”

“Maybe,” she said with a slow smile. “And what about you, Thomas? Are you from Nashville?”

“Yep. Born and raised.”

“What part?” she said.

“You’re looking at it,” I said.

She laughed, putting her thumb just inside her lower lip. “You were born in a bar?”

“No,” I said, smiling. “I mean East Nashville. This side of the river.”