by Mj Hendrix
I rush to the safety of the bar. My phone starts to ring, and I duck into the storage room. Drawing in a calming breath, I look at the screen.
It’s an unknown number, so I ignore it. I need to get back out there and help the other bartenders. After a few more slow breaths, I will my legs to carry me to the bar top.
“Harley!” My name is called, propelling me forward to avoid getting canned.
I need this job, so I can get a car and a laptop and a million other things I can’t afford.
My phone pings with a text.
Adam: Hi, how are you tonight?
I can’t help but smile at the message on my phone. I begin to respond when my name is called again.
“Harley! We need more Grey Goose! Are you alive back there?” Annoyance tinges Sal’s voice, so I quickly type my response back.
Harley: At work. Call you when I’m off?
I don’t wait for a response, grabbing the glass bottle and rushing out.
The rest of the night is a blur of spilled alcohol, catcalls, and fake smiles. I groan in relief as the last patron exits. Locking the door, I grab the broom to start sweeping under the tables.
I pull out my phone to see if Adam responded. I notice the unknown caller left a voice mail.
The text draws a curve on my face.
Adam: Sure. I’ll wait up.
Suddenly, my finger is touching the call button, and the phone is pressed to my ear. My breath catches as his gravelly voice answers.
“Hello?” He sounds like he just woke up.
“I’m sorry. You said to call. Did I wake you up?” I whisper, the phone clutched between my shoulder and ear as I sweep up crunched receipts and straws. Why did I even call him? I start to say good-bye. “I’ll see you—”
“No, I’m glad you did. I just dozed off. How was work?”
His voice sends a tiny swarm of butterflies through my stomach, and I chastise myself. Just friendly horticulture enthusiasts studying living things together.
“It was the usual—grabby customers and decent tips. How was your night? Did you start on the study guide?” I respond.
I walk toward the back, waving at Sal as she completes her closing work behind the counter.
“Bye,” I say as I walk out onto the street.
“Oh, do you need to go?” Adam asks.
“No. I was just saying bye to my coworker. Why are you up so late?”
The streets are nearly empty, but I’m still surveying my surroundings with wariness.
“Uh, I was working on a paper and…just waiting for you to call, I guess.” He pauses, and my stomach flips. “Hope that’s okay.” The uncertainty in his voice is endearing.
“Sure, it’s fine.” More than fine if I listened to the increase in my heart rate. “I hate the walk home alone. Having someone to talk to is nice.”
I wish I could shut up. He wants to be friends, and so do I.
“You’re walking home? From the bar…at two a.m.?” His voice is distressed, and I hear the rustling of fabric and grunting.
“Uh, yeah. It’s only two miles to campus. I do it all the time.”
I hear a door slam.
“Did you say the bar is on Seventh? Are you still on the same street?”
His breath is a little heavier, and I realize he’s running.
I laugh. “Are you going to run here? I’m fine, really. I’m used to walking. No one’s even out this late.” My heart is not thumping harder at his concern.
A car door slams over the phone, and a loud engine roars to life.
“Adam, seriously, I’m okay.”
“Please tell me where you are, Harley. It’s the middle of the night. I can’t believe you’ve been walking home all this time.” He sounds calm, but I sense a little bit of desperation in his tone.
“I’m on the corner of Seventh, and you should really go back to the dorms, Farm Boy.” I cannot let him rescue me. I don’t need help.
“Did you know that the crime rate skyrockets after midnight?” he asks, his voice desperate.
“No, but I do now,” I reply, looking around the mostly deserted street. My steps quicken.
A diesel engine is getting louder, and I realize it’s physically approaching. The streetlights reveal a faded blue-and-white classic Chevrolet pickup pulling up beside me on the sidewalk.
“Please let me drive you home.” He’s still talking to me through the phone, but now, I can see his face, square jaw clenched. Amber eyes are piercing into me. His muscled arm is resting on top of the vintage-style steering wheel, the other gripping his old flip phone.
For a moment, I feel transported back to a time when men were more attentive and romantic gestures were the norm. Before the age of Tinder, Snapchat, and hook-up culture.
Is this really happening?
“I’m okay. I can walk.” My voice lacks conviction. I’m still talking into the phone, standing still and facing his window.
His eyes plead with me, widening to puppy-dog-begging size. “Harley, I really can’t let you walk home alone at this hour. It would be my pleasure to drive you.” He puts the single cab into park, opens the door, and steps onto the street.
A car drives by, honking at him. His eyes stay on me, phone pressed to his cheek.
“Why would you come out here to get me?” I ask him.
“You need to…I need to make sure you’re safe.” I hear his voice echoing into the receiver.
We put the phones down together as he reaches me.
“Why do you care?” I’m whispering now, my voice scratchy.
He takes another step, swallowing as he gets closer to me, not quite touching.
“Why don’t you want me to care?” His voice is low to match mine.
“I—I thought we were going to be just friends?”
He takes a deep breath and reaches out a large hand to brush a stray hair out of my eyes. He trails it down my cheek, gazing at my lips. I can feel what he wants to do, but somehow, I know he won’t.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he whispers, like his voice being lower gives him boldness to say such things.
“You said you didn’t want to pursue a woman.”
I step closer, my hand reaching out to hold on to his forearm. The sensation of peace and safety seems to ooze from his pores. His fingers lightly wrap around my elbow, and the touch sends rhythmic tingles up to my chest. We make twin gasping noises, our breath mingling in the few inches of air separating our lips. His eyes drop down, gaze laser-focused on my mouth.
A car driving by beeps its horn, and we both jerk.
He clears his throat, the moment shattered.
“Please get in. I’m already here.” He opens the door to the pickup.
The lamp above his head casts his face in shadows, his bones flawlessly formed together. He should be a model for toothpaste, so the camera would have to focus on his jawline.
I step into the slightly lifted truck. His seats are a soft gray fabric upholstery that’s been well maintained but is clearly old. The radio is a classic style that only plays stations, no CDs. A manual gearshift sticks up from the floor. He climbs into the driver side, slamming the door shut.
We drive in silence, the air between us tense. Slightly labored breathing is the only sound. We pass a homeless man pushing a grocery cart.
Adam gives me a side-eye that says, I can’t believe you were going to walk all the way back.
“It’s not that bad. I’ve always had to walk alone on the streets at night. You think my foster mom gave me rides after work?”
Apparently, I can’t help spewing truth around him, but I vow to keep a lid on the sob story. I notice the tendons in his driving arm flex as he pulls up to my dorm.
“Well, she sounds like a terrible mom. Will you call me next time, please?”
He turns to face me, the intimacy of the street immediately returning. I’m not going to melt at this show of concern.
“Doubtful. You aren’t my chauffeur…or my boy
friend.”
He blinks in surprise but quickly recovers.
“Do you…do you have a boyfriend?” His voice is a little strained as he asks it.
“Do you have a girlfriend?” I ask, although I’m pretty certain of the answer.
“No, I…I don’t date. I’ve never had one.” His blatant honesty is refreshing.
“Well, you could probably have the pick of the litter with this whole chivalry-wrapped-in-muscles thing you got going on.” I smile out the window. “You just need to pick a more suitable object for your attention.” I click open the old-fashioned door handle. I could get used to being picked up in this truck.
“Why are you so against me…us maybe…being more than friends?” He holds his breath. He seems to be looking for a reason…maybe he needs me to reassure him that I don’t feel that way about him.
I lean across the narrow cab, my breasts brushing against his chest and my mouth a hair from his ear. His breath hitches, and I detect the light scent of cedar.
“You couldn’t handle me as any more than friends,” I breathe into him, his body tense.
I don’t care what he wants to hear. I slam the door on my words.
Blowing out a breath, I tell myself it’s for the best to shut him down before he gets his hopes up. Damaged isn’t something a sweet, innocent guy like him needs.
I’m in the elevator before I remember the voice mail. I pull out my phone, and my finger hovers over the delete button. It could be the financial aid office. My blood is cold when I hear a familiar voice on the recording.
“Harley, I’m glad I finally found you. The way you left things was…unacceptable. You can’t breach a contract in the middle of the terms. I trust you’ll get back to me before I have to involve the police. You have one week to call me and work this out before we seek legal action.”
Bile is rolling up my throat, and my hands start to sweat. They found my number…did they find me?
10
Adam
“Levi, you can go to the dance without actually dancing. Kenna said not to worry about not knowing the steps. We can stand on the sidelines and hang out. It’s not a sin to…watch dancing.” My voice fades a little as I realize it could be a sin, but I’m not sure.
Dan sees the doubt on my face and rushes to reassure me. “If you called him, Dad would want time to consult Pastor Ray, and then we would miss it.” His eyes are wide, pleading with me.
Levi looks up from his laptop, black-framed glasses slipping down his nose. He pushes them back up. “You guys go ahead. I need to work on this genetics paper. I want to get a head start.”
We all know he’s not even challenged by his advanced classes. We are the extent of his social circle, and he’d rather write a textbook than meet new people.
“You ready?”
I’ve got on my Sunday-best jeans—the only ones without rips—my black button-down shirt, and leather boots. Dan is dressed the same, except that he’s wearing a green button-down. Silas has a baseball game tonight.
“So, you and the tattooed—” Dan begins as we get into my ’72 Chevy.
“Her name is Harley,” I clip.
“Okay, Harley. Are you and her like, ya know…”
Apparently, giving a girl a ride home at two a.m. means you’re in love with her.
Dan and I were never allowed to date. He’s gone off and kissed a few girls behind the classrooms at church, out of view of the parking lot, but we’re both inexperienced with relationships and intimacy.
“We’re just friends.” I pause. “Not that I owe you an explanation.” I can’t explain it to him if I don’t understand it.
A few minutes pass by, and we pull up to the dance hall the sorority rented out.
“Ha, I just keep picturing Mom’s face if you ever tried to bring her—”
My hand slams the steering wheel. “Would you shut up about it? Damn.” I focus on looking for a space, taking deep breaths.
“Oh, she’s really rubbing off on you. I’ve never heard you curse. Not even when your hand got caught under the combine blade.”
His face is turned toward me, trying not to laugh. Thirty-four stitches left a jagged scar on my left hand. I flex it at the memory.
As we walk toward the dance hall, there are men in cowboy hats stationed outside, asking for IDs. One marks Dan’s hands with Xs. I get a pink bracelet around my wrist.
The interior is dimly lit, revealing a saddle, glittering with mirrors and diamonds, suspended from the ceiling. A stage light is trained on it, causing light to bounce all around the couples dancing in the center of the floor.
I start to recognize a few faces from my classes and the dorms as we make our way toward the swaying bodies. Most of the girls are wearing little dresses with cowboy boots, which I’ve never seen before. The guys are all in a variation of what Dan and I have on.
“Where’s your girlfriend?” my brother says to me, loud enough to be heard over the blaring Texas country band.
“Not my girlfriend,” I mumble under my breath, searching the sea of skin for one marked up with ink.
“Hey, boys, so glad you could make it!” Kenna approaches us in a little black dress that has a lacy part over her stomach and a pair of white boots.
Her face falls a bit as she approaches, but she’s still smiling.
“Where’s Levi?” She looks behind us toward the entrance.
“He, uh, needed to write a paper,” I say.
Her wide green eyes peer up at me. She hesitates but finally speaks, “Does he not…well, is he gay?” She rushes out the last part.
My mouth drops open.
“No, no, he’s not gay. Why would you think so?”
Dan is simply listening in, as perplexed as I am at her question.
She rushes to explain. “Well, he just didn’t really even give me a chance, you know? I guess I was just hoping it wasn’t…me.” She brushes a hand through her straight blonde hair and glances over her bare shoulder.
“Yeah, I, uh, I think he’s just shy. It’s not you. He’s never really dated anyone.” I realize I’m not helping clear up whether or not he likes girls, but honestly, I’ve never even thought about it until now.
“But you’re sure he isn’t gay?” She seems doubtful, her forehead scrunched up as she looks between us.
Dan finally chirps up, “Nah, he ain’t gay. He’s just…super smart, and he’s nervous around women. His parents kind of kept him locked up and made him do calculus and whatnot all day. He’s real nice, just quiet.” He flashes her a grin, his dimple appearing.
She laughs and reaches a hand out to touch his forearm. “Okay, well, if you say so. I guess I’ll just have to let it go. You gentlemen care for a drink?” She holds up her glass as she asks it.
“No, thanks. We don’t really drink.” My eyes are sweeping the room, hoping Harley shows up tonight.
Kenna giggles, “Oh, right. I think I remember from the beach party. Okay, well, who wants to dance?” She interrupts our chance to respond with a wave, her voice raised. “Harley! Over here!”
I slowly turn my head to watch her approach. Her ebony hair is splayed out around her, straighter than I’ve ever seen it. She has on a light-blue denim dress that hangs off of her shoulders, leaving them bare. The short hem grazes the tops of her thighs. The tall black cowboy boots she’s wearing have intricate white designs cut into the sides. They add a few inches to her height.
As she gets closer, my stomach starts to tighten. Her eye color has never been bluer, enhanced by the denim. Her plump lips are shiny, her face almost angelic. Without a doubt, she’s the most enticing being I’ve ever come in contact with. She stands out among the college crowd with her numerous tattoos, and I feel the sudden urge to run my fingertips over her skin and trace all the shapes.
“You are…breathtaking.” The words slip from my mouth before I have time to think about them first.
Friends don’t call each other breathtaking. Her mouth starts to curl upward as she looks
down at her boots, thick lashes brushing her cheeks, almost like she’s shy.
Dan saves the day. “Hey, Harley, I’m Dan. Adam’s brother.” He stretches out a hand, and they shake.
“I knew the chambray would be perfect on you, babe. You are stunning.” Kenna smiles, perfect teeth flashing.
“Thanks. I’m glad I decided to come.” She’s looking at me as she says it, and I want more than anything to kiss her, like on the street and in my truck.
My new, constant state is wanting her, and it happened fast. I have no idea if she feels the same. My intuition tells me she does, but this is unknown territory for me. I know I shouldn’t give in to this urge, but the pull I feel toward her is magnetic.
“Do you dance?” Harley’s raspy voice asks.
She’s standing close by me, and I want to reach out my arms to wrap around her shoulders. I cross them over my chest instead.
“No, I don’t really know how. Do you?”
She nods. “I love to dance.”
I hesitate in telling her what I’m thinking, but I feel like it’s a point worth making. I’m curious about how she’ll respond.
“It’s kind of…well, it’s a sin really.”
My parents and our church always taught us that. Dancing is somewhere up in line with fornication.
“Says who?” she challenges me. Her tone isn’t mocking, thankfully.
“Well…it just, you know, can lead to…other things that are wrong.” My breath is held up in my lungs.
If she didn’t already think I was a freak, she does now.
“Dancing is not a sin. They dance in the Bible.” She says it matter-of-factly.
I stare at her, contemplating her words.
“Well, yes, but the point is just that it…can lead to impure thoughts and actions.” I’m beginning to doubt the solidity of the memorized reason. Maybe I’m forgetting part of it.
“How do you know? Have you ever done it?” Her hand is on her hip, her face turned up to look at mine.
I look out at the dance floor. The twirling couples seem to be having fun.
“No, but—”
She cuts me off, “No buts. My favorite Bible verse is about dancing—You have turned my mourning into dancing. It’s in the Psalms. You can look it up. There’s more, ones about having a time to mourn and a time to dance. Anyways, the point is that it’s not a sin.” She’s not smug about it, but she is confident.
