Her Hometown Girl

by Lorelie Brown

  Cai’s head tilts and dark hair spills over her cheek. “That’s what you want?”

  “It’s … tough?” I want to turn my hand palm side up beneath hers. Is that done? Is it okay? “Back home, everyone pretty much just drank beer or flavored vodka.”

  When I went too far with Jody, she’d recoil. She’s never been fond of public displays of affection. Never. Except those times when she started it, usually because there was someone nearby who she wanted to send a message to. Which … sounds absolutely batshit now that I turn it over in my head.

  My stomach still churns as I hold my palm up. Cai doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t lace her fingers through mine the way I’d hoped, but she does trace a circle around the base of my thumb. The churning turns into butterflies.

  “A Long Island will have you flat on the floor in about twenty minutes. Is that what you mean by tough?”

  “No. Something …” I want to cover my face again, but I don’t, because I’m working on that whole brave thing everywhere in my life. After all, I’m holding hands with one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. If she were a model, she’d be the type to set trends. “Something old-school cool. What Rhett Butler would order.”

  “Rhett, huh?” Her lush mouth quirks into a smile, and she flags Bonnie down again. “I know what we need here.”

  “Ready?” Bonnie hops to it with her pencil hovering over her mini spiral-bound notebook.

  “Two Jamesons, two Pappys, and two pours of Macallan.”

  She cocks an eyebrow and snickers. “You want those shaken or stirred?”

  “Each neat, smart-ass.”

  “You got it, boss.” She tucks the pencil behind her ear as she saunters away.

  “You come here a lot?”

  “Yup.” She doesn’t seem the least bit guilty or apprehensive about going to a bar often. She also hasn’t let go of my hand. “I’ve got a circle of friends that hangs out here. It helps that it’s right down from the shop and still open after we close. They serve a killer ceviche too.”

  “Yeah?” I perk up and glance around. “I’m always looking for a new source. It’s one of my favorite things.”

  “Japanese food has had the corner on raw fish long enough,” she says with an over-played nod. “We should rise up and revolt on behalf of Peruvian food.”

  “Not that ceviche is technically raw.” Crap, that came out in what Jody always called my schoolmarm tone. I pull my hand back to my lap before Cai has a chance to pull away first. Outside the windows, the sun has gone down. It’s not quite dark yet, but the gray shadows of dusk are gathering into something that’s almost night.

  “No?” Cai’s voice doesn’t have a sharp edge. “It’s never cooked though.”

  “It’s cured.” I twist my fingers together and worry the bottom hem of my flannel. “It’s the citrus juice. It still has to be fresh, but the result is a chemical process.”

  I’m embarrassing myself, but I just can’t seem to shut my mouth, and half of it is my surprise—shock?—that she’s not telling me to shut up, not even with her body language. So I go on a little while about the technical properties behind how it works, mostly just to see if she has a line. Not about ceviche, it seems like. It’s so weird. No one wants to hear about my random bits of school teacher knowledge. Jody helped me tone that part of myself down and be more interesting.

  Unless she didn’t. Unless she was actually just ruining me.

  The words in my mouth dry up, but it’s right as Bonnie arrives with a tray of drinks, so I don’t think Cai notices. Or if she does, she’s kind and lets it go.

  Bonnie lines up three glasses in front of each of us. The first is a pair of squared off, squat tumblers. The next pair are classic shot glasses, and the last set are bell-shaped on a short stem. “Jameson in the tulips, Pappy in the shots, and Macallan neat.”

  I blink, but that seems to have made sense to Cai. She thanks Bonnie, who disappears as quickly as she came. “What do I do?”

  “Whatever you want to.”

  “You’re not going to tell me the rules?”

  She tilts her head enough that silky black hair slides over her cheek. The line of her shoulders to her arms to her graceful, long fingers is so relaxed. I don’t know if I’ve ever been that relaxed before in my life. I’m sure I must have been at some point, but it’s been a long time. My entire being is a drawn knot. I am made of wire and disappointment.

  “There’s no rules to booze.”

  “Why did you pick these three?” I touch the rim of the shot glass. It’s full enough that a drop of alcohol clings to the pad of my finger. I lick it away. It’s a kiss of fire.

  “I like them.” She picks up the one in the tumbler. “This one’s my favorite scotch.”

  I grab my tiny glass instead to be contrary. “And Pappy?”

  “Pappy Van Winkle is a bourbon. It’s a big deal because it’s limited release. Hard to get a whole bottle of.”

  Her lips meet the rim of her glass, but her eyes stay trained on me. I think it’s the arch of her cheekbones above her hollowed cheeks that really does it for me. If her face were between my knees, maybe she’d look something like this. The intensity makes me squeeze my thighs together against a sudden kick of lust.

  It’s almost shocking in its strength. I used to desire Jody. I know it on a logical level, because I started sleeping with her, so of course it had to be there at some point, right? When we were young and tangled together in my narrow dorm bed, I’d been drunk on how much she wanted me, and in return it had made me so filled with lust that I’d barely been able to think.

  That feeling had gone away. It’s hard to tell when. I want to believe it was between moving in together and when I quit my first job at a public school. Jody pushed me into quitting, but I’d let her, and somewhere along the way she’d stopped looking at me like she wanted to strip me naked and touch me from head to toe.

  It was probably earlier than that, though. Between the first argument we had and the time she’d bombed my phone with apologetic texts and voice mails. A hundred and seventy-five texts in two hours now seems creepy instead of determined.

  I suck half the shot of Pappy whatever it is into my mouth. I don’t care that it’s expensive or rare. The fire consumes me, and I blow a breath through my teeth. “Oh my god.”

  “It’s strong.” Her teeth flash as she stifles a laugh.

  “I’m going to turn into Drew Barrymore. Release the horses.”

  “Firestarter?”

  “I figured it would be a better reference than that crappy Bloodhound Gang song.”

  She can’t hide her laughter anymore. When she lets it go, she looks to the window and casts her amusement toward the beach. “What if I loved that song?”

  “Do you?” Fear and embarrassment clutch my throat. “I mean, you’re older than me, aren’t you? Maybe it’s like your high school song or something and I’ve stepped in it.”

  The dark slash of her brows quirks together in the center. “You didn’t offend me so much with the song, but you’re kind of doing your best now, aren’t you?”

  “Oh god.” I cover my face for a second, but then realize I’m already holding the perfect antidote. I down the second half of my bourbon. It goes down a whole lot more smoothly than the first drink. “I’m so sorry. You’re not old or anything. That’s not what I meant to imply.”

  Hello, fishing expedition. I pretend that wasn’t just incredibly awkward and keep smiling at her.

  “I’m thirty-nine.” Her tone is dry.

  “Really?” I turn the number over in my mind, trying to get a grip on it. Is that what I would have guessed if pressed? Probably not. But she seems too mature to be in her twenties, either. Maybe that’s just the feeling that she’s got her life together so much more than I do. “I’m twenty-five.”

  I’m not where I thought I’d be at twenty-five. Maybe it’s dumb, but I thought I’d have a good hold on my life by now. I’d be something closer to organized. A mile
nearer to responsible.

  Instead I’m living in a short-term, furnished apartment that’s a favor from the parents of one of my pupils. I have a cat. At least Gyoza loves me.

  I grab the fancier-looking glass and swirl the drink. “What was this one?”

  “Jameson. Irish whiskey. All three of these are made the same way, just in different places. The bourbon’s the American one.”

  I don’t look up as I sip, but she’s watching me steadily. “Is this less like napalm because it’s a different one or because I’m getting used to it?”

  “Probably because you’re getting used to it. Jameson has a bit of a kick, same as the Pappy.”

  I take a tiny drink and let a few drops pool on my tongue. My mouth rules over my brain for a moment. This is a thing that forces me to be in the moment but soothes me at the same time. I think I like it. Maybe too much? How quickly can one become an alcoholic?

  I’m being ridiculous. I swallow.

  Cai chooses that moment to ask, “Does my age bother you?”

  “Should it?” It’s not that I’m intentionally ducking the question, but … I am.

  “Maybe.”

  My gaze jerks up to hers, and I meet her head-on. “What?”

  Honesty shouldn’t be such a fucking shock to me. It keeps hitting me over and over again what a messed-up relationship I was in for so long. Jody never would have is my lament and refrain. And no, Jody never would have answered like that. “Why?”

  She shrugs. “I’m fourteen years older than you. The babysitting rule.”

  “Are you bothered?”

  “Yeah.” She leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. “The thing is, I’d like to get to know you, Tansy.”

  My chest tightens for a moment before my heart bursts open and flutters about my rib cage. “Yeah?” Don’t be so easily pleased, Tansy. Be hard to get. Be cooler.

  “Yes.” She leans forward another bit and takes a lock of my hair between her fingers. I hate that I can’t feel it. I want nerves in my hair so that I don’t miss any bit of this woman.

  “That doesn’t seem like a bad thing.”

  “I’m older than you, and you just got out of a long-term relationship. And I … I’m not looking for anything made to last forever.” There’s a darkness in her eyes, in the way the corners of her mouth tighten. If I asked, I’d be probing her raw spot, some old injury that doesn’t look like it’s ever been healed.

  I don’t know her story, and by the rules of every romance novel I’ve ever read, this is where I’m supposed to say, It’s okay, I’m only looking for a fling. If she were Jody, I’d follow the script. I’d been trained by blasts of emotional napalm.

  But I keep establishing how shitty an example my previous relationship was. So I do the exact opposite of my instincts. I stick my finger in the wound. “Why not?”

  Tansy

  Cai’s face falls. Her skin goes pale and her body language is ridiculously easy to read—she crosses both arms over her chest and even cants away from me. I haven’t poked my finger in a wound—I’ve shoved my hand in her intestines and hauled them out onto her lap.

  The urge to tell her no, it’s okay, she doesn’t have to say anything, hovers on my tongue, so I burn it away with more of the Jameson. I am strong. I am bold.

  I tell myself so, at least.

  I’d be upset with her if it seemed like she was pouting, but this isn’t that. She’s gone deep inside herself to consult the big book of Cai’s Troubles. Sadness lurks in there. I wonder if she’ll decide to tell me or not.

  “It’s the usual stuff. I like my life easy. I’ve got a lot of friends and hobbies, and I love my career. Girlfriends get upset when I pick up and leave for Alaska for a week.”

  So she’s going with no, I guess. I could leave it be. I could.

  I won’t.

  There’s a new me, I think. I don’t know why I’m this daring. Because I don’t think Cai will snap off my head? Maybe because she doesn’t yet know my weaknesses, the softest parts of my underbelly that bleed with a perfectly chosen jab. I have the chance to be anyone around her. Maybe I’ll be someone who’s not afraid of conflict.

  “It sounds like you’re writing a personal ad.” Damn, do I like making her laugh. It makes me feel sophisticated. Smarter than I actually am, or like I’m finally one of the cool kids.

  “You’ve got claws, kitten.” She doesn’t turn back toward me, but at least she uncrosses an arm and reaches toward the table.

  My heart jumps when I think she’s reaching for my hand, and my stomach takes the loveliest flip. But it’s her bourbon she grabs. Oops. I’m such a dork sometimes. I keep my expression under control and don’t betray my disappointment. Or at least I think I do.

  More booze. That’ll fix this pit in my gut.

  I’m full of gruesome analogies tonight, I guess. The last bit of the Jameson goes down incredibly smoothly. It seems like there’s now a rich umber flavor that I didn’t notice before. Smoky forest stuff. Or something. “I mean, you’ve got a full life. None of those preclude a relationship.”

  “Does that mean you’re looking for one with me?”

  “No, I think you’d hurt me.”

  The words are stones tossed into a pond, with repercussions rippling out by the second. At the bar, Bonnie leans against the rail and chats with a male bartender. The floor-to-ceiling windows open at the far end of the bar are thrown open to the evening breeze. A cluster of surfers have three tables pulled together. A roar of laughter goes up from the group.

  I think I recognize one of them from the covers of magazines and watch ads. He’s got short-buzzed hair and eyes that are so blue I can see them from across the bar.

  “That’s Sean Westin.” Cai’s voice is quieter than usual. “He’s a local.”

  “To San Sebastian? Or to this bar.”

  “Both.” She reaches out, and this time she does touch my hand, covering it with hers. “I probably would hurt you. We shouldn’t do this.”

  “But you agree there’s something there?” Her hand is warm and her fingers are seriously skinny. I want to stroke her knuckles. I don’t. “Here? Between us.”

  “I don’t leave work in the middle of a shift for just anyone.”

  “I’m going to choose to believe that means you don’t hit on a lot of your clients, either.”

  She turns her hands over and laces her fingers through mine. It’s a light connection, one that makes me think about fragility and how quickly grains of sand could slide right between us. “I don’t. I won’t say never, but rarely.”

  “How long?”

  “Last time was about six years ago.”

  I can live with that. “Is this the date you mentioned, or is it going to be some future thing?”

  “Maybe both.”

  I don’t think I can discern any differences between the Macallan and the other two I’ve finished, but I’m certainly starting to feel lovely. “Why would Rhett Butler drink these?”

  “Because he doesn’t give a damn?” I love her smile. It’s inviting, like I’m being let in on a secret. “He was a guy who didn’t do mixers, which means he’d also needed to drink the good stuff. That’s these.”

  It’s easy to ignore that our hands are linked together, and hard at the same time because it feels like everything centers on that connection. My rapid pulse hovers in a middle ground between anxiety and thrills. At first I hide my smile behind my glass, and then I decide that no, I’m not going to be a hiding kind of girl. Not anymore. It’s okay to be happy. It’s okay to be joyous. Even if this goes nowhere from here, I’m holding hands with a beautiful woman after having watched a fantastic sunset. Life is pure. Life starts again. I can start again.

  I’ll be damned if I let Jody take that away from me for even a second longer.

  “Tell me what Idaho’s like,” Cai says after a long, peaceful moment.

  “Cold. Insular. Filled with people who are really good people, but who only talk to each other and don’t
trust outsiders.” I hear what I’m saying like a weird echo. It’s true, but it’s not all the story—but it’s what Jody used to focus on when she refused to visit. I’ve been home only once since I’ve been gone. “It’s beautiful though. And once people trust you, it’s like joining a cult without the weird religious part.”

  Her laugh is a little expulsion of sound, but I like making even that come from her. “I love how you start with cold and then go into this emotional insight.”

  “I miss the cold.” I lift my foot just enough to bring it out from under our little table. My flip-flop dangles from my painted toes. “I like these, but I used to snowshoe and ski like crazy. I used to cry every year the first day it was over sixty degrees.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Nope. Swear to god.” I cross two fingers over my chest in an X. No, that isn’t a petty ploy to make Cai look at my breasts … Okay, maybe it is, but it works. She stays smiling, but the corners of her eyes tighten and something dark passes across them. Win for me. “Mom used to call me a complete drama queen. And sure, after my cry, I’d go out to the creek with Justin and have a blast four wheeling. But I always had a cry first.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  “It’s not. It’s silly.”

  Cai shakes her head, and her hand tightens on mine. “It’s adorable. You can’t convince me otherwise. How did you end up here?”

  “I wanted to try life in a big city. I applied to SUNY Buffalo so I could stay somewhere snowy, but USC is practically a city on its own. So that’s where I ended up going.” I shrug, turning my glass in circles. “I was about twelve when I figured out I was gay. The dating pool is kind of tiny in Salmon. And by tiny, I mean nonexistent.”

  “Seriously? No one?”

  “Okay, there was Beth Karlsson. She was nice, and we gave it a shot, but we just weren’t into the same stuff. Hunting’s okay, but it’s not my favorite.”

  “Wait, what?” She’s laughing, and I can’t tell if she’s laughing at me or with me. “You’ve been hunting?”

  “Here come the country-hick jokes.” They were one of Jody’s specialties. I roll my eyes in order to stave off the pinch of hurt behind my ribs.