by Sarina Bowen
Ralph’s eyes travel to Brett’s blond head, just visible in the window. “Still,” he says, almost gagging on the word. “That sounds horrible.”
“It was,” I admit, sliding off the barstool. “It wasn’t like being asleep. You lose time.” I shiver. “And I’m phobic about drinks now. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
“I’ll bet you are. Hey!” He snaps his fingers. “Do you want to make your own cocktail? Some afternoon when it’s quiet, you can come behind the bar and make a mojito. Or whatever you want. I’ll let you open a fresh bottle of rum and everything.”
“Oh, wow.” I feel my face heat. “That is a really nice offer.”
“Think it over,” he says gruffly, pushing my change toward me. “Now go on before Music Man starts barking at us again.”
“Later, Ralph,” I say softly, hoping he’ll give me one more smile.
“Later, girly,” he says with a resigned sigh.
I have to leave before I get my smile.
Delilah
The next two weeks go by at lightning speed. And nothing changes.
I still don’t have a recording contract. I’m still playing for whichever crowds Brett can find me. Still taking any meeting I can get. Still avoiding being alone with Brett, so I don’t have to make the decision about whether I’m going to give in and sleep with him or not.
Meanwhile, Ralph asks me every day for my phone number. But it’s our little joke now, and he smiles when he asks me, and he always gives me another friendly smile after I say no.
In fact, Ralph and I have settled into a rhythm that resembles an old-time comedy routine. Every day I come in to Roadie Joe’s before the happy-hour rush to enjoy a quiet hour of sitting and scribbling in my notebook while watching him mix drinks with those strong hands.
It’s my favorite hour of the day. No contest.
Brett hates that I come here. In fact, I think he tries to schedule things for late afternoon now just to foil my chill session at the bar.
Ralph, on the other hand, has gotten used to me showing up. He no longer cuts himself or falls down when I appear on a barstool. He just brings me a beer in a bottle—unopened—and gives me a smile.
God, that smile.
My notebook is nearly full of lyrics, but Ralph knows he’s not allowed to read them. One time last week I forgot my notebook and ended up writing lyrics on a napkin. Those were pretty good lyrics, too. Ralph didn’t say a word. He only offered me more napkins.
“Most of what I jot down is pure trash,” I’ve explained. “But once in a while something clicks.”
“That seems like a pretty good description of my life right now,” he said.
“Mine, too.”
“So we have that in common.” He winked and washed up some celery for Bloody Marys.
It’s another beautiful September afternoon, and the outdoor tables must be jammed because Ralph is neck-deep in orders. I glance up from my notebook to watch him sometimes, but we don’t get much time to talk.
Business finally dies down, and he wipes down the bar, eyeing me as I tap out a rhythm with my pencil eraser. The song I’m working on relies upon syncopation. I can hear it so clearly in my head, but I just don’t quite have the lyric.
Ralph is watching me. I like it, but he’s not allowed to know that. “Omigod, what?” I demand, looking up. “You’re staring.”
“I was just wondering when you’re going to give me your phone number.”
This is our fun little game, but the music festival closes in a few more days, and once I leave town, that’s it. Bye, Ralph. There’s no telling whether I’ll ever come back here.
That makes me a whole lot sadder than I’m ready to let on.
“Is never good for you?” I give him a cheeky smile. “Oh my God, that’s a good song title!” I flip open my notebook to scribble it onto the inside cover.
“Wow. Please write a song about my heartbreak. That’s not cruel at all.”
“I’ll dedicate it to you. This one goes out to Ralph the bartender.”
“Write quickly. Because I’m all set up back here for you to make your own mojito.”
I sit up straight on the barstool. “Really?” Damn, I really want a mojito. Or anything that is fresh and minty and not straight out of a beer bottle.
“Would I lie about a thing like this? Get back here before the happy-hour orders start rolling in. Quick!”
I’ve probably never moved so fast. A couple seconds later I’m standing beside him. “Are you going to get in trouble for this?”
“Nah. Let’s do this. First step—cut up this lime.” He places it on the cutting board in front of me.
I know better than to waste time. I pick up the paring knife and start slicing the lime into discs.
“Toss the slices in here.” He sets a pint glass down in front of me. “Then use the spoon and smash them up a little bit. That’s right,” he says as I work. “Now add this.” He unfolds a sheaf of wax paper, revealing a bunch of mint he’s already prepped for me.
My heart gives a gratuitous little flip.
“Thank you.” I drop the mint leaves into the glass, then pick up the wooden spoon and crush the leaves against the sides.
“There you go. Isn’t it therapeutic? When you’re done, you need these.” He pushes a couple of sugar packets in my direction.
I’ve been watching him too long to think that’s right. “Don’t you use that fine stuff, so the sugar melts?”
“Well…” He pulls the canister of superfine sugar off a shelf. “This stuff isn’t in a sealed packet. But it does work better.”
I put down the spoon and turn to face him. Suddenly, we’re standing so close that I forget to breathe. And when I look up into his pretty eyes, I see my own foolish attraction reflected right back at me. “You are a prince, Ralph,” I whisper. “I hope you know that.”
“That’s what all the girls say,” he teases quietly.
Inside I’m dying. The feeling I get when he’s kind to me is so new and unfamiliar. He’s sexy as hell. But he’s also sweet. I didn’t even know that combination was possible in a man.
Just standing close to him makes my body run hot. And I want to know what he’d be like in bed. I’m curious on a gut level.
The universe doesn’t care, though. I’m going back to Southern California in less than a week. And Ralph isn’t. We are two people at two different crossroads.
Every day I think about actually giving him my phone number. And every day I don’t go through with it. Texting with him a week from now? It will only ruin the memory of sitting in this bar every day in his quiet company.
Some memories are sweeter if you don’t ruin them by hanging on too tightly.
Carefully, I turn around. I go back to muddling my limes. I open the superfine sugar canister and measure out a portion with the spoon Ralph hands me. I can’t stop my awareness of how near he is. And how good he smells—like soap and limes and summer near the ocean.
“Now what?” I ask, leaning over the glass to inhale mint. “This smells so good.” As do you.
“Here.” He hands me the ice scoop. “Fill the glass to the top.”
Gleefully, I plunge it into the ice bin and noisily fill the glass. “This is fun. And good practice for the jobs I’ll get after I bomb out of the music industry.”
“Never gonna happen,” he says. “Now this.” He hands me a bottle of Bacardi that’s never been opened.
I break the seal and remove the cap.
“You can eyeball it, or you can measure it with this.” He nudges a shot glass towards me.
“I’d better measure. I’m supposed to meet some other songwriters later. I should probably stay lucid.”
“If you’re into that.” His chuckle resonates in my belly. “Last step,” he says, handing me the soda gun. “Just a splash of club soda and you’re done.”
“Thank you,” I say as I finish making the perfect summer cocktail. “You’re the best. And I swear I’m not phobic about an
ything else. I don’t mind tight spaces or spiders.”
He grunts. “I’m not a big fan of tight spaces. And you come by your phobia pretty honestly.”
“I’d rather have come by it dishonestly,” I point out, stirring my drink with a straw. I lift the glass and peer at the minty ice swirling inside. “That is beautiful.” I take a sniff and sigh.
He waits, maybe wondering if I’ll be able to drink it.
But it’s no problem at all. I take a gleeful gulp. “God.” I take another. “This is even better than I remember. Taste?” I offer him the glass.
He takes it from me and takes a quick sip.
What I really want is to sit down somewhere and drink a pitcher of mojitos with him. I want to lounge on a beach in the sunshine and watch the wind tousle his hair. In this fantasy, he’s shirtless, of course.
“Good stuff,” he says, handing it back.
“Ralph!” shouts the owner from the kitchen. “How many cases of Malbec do we have? I got the distributor on the phone.”
“One sec!” he calls. He disappears into the stockroom. A few seconds later, his head pops around the corner. “Six!” he yells.
“Good man.”
I’m still standing here behind the bar, and now he has to go back to work. But I didn’t thank him properly, so I walk around the corner to find him. The stockroom is narrow and dim. One wall has all the beer keg hookups, and the other is stacked to the ceiling with cases of wine, beer, and spirits. Ralph is rearranging a couple of them.
“Hey. I just wanted to thank you for this.”
He straightens up. “You know it’s my pleasure.”
I put a hand on his shoulder and rise up on my toes, because he’s tall. I aim my kiss at his cheek.
But in a move so smooth that it deserves some kind of award, Ralph turns his head. My kiss lands on the corner of his mouth instead. He catches me around the waist and pulls me in.
I swear my heart stops beating as he changes the angle and kisses me for real. Soft lips. Hard body. Mint and lime juice. Heat. Hell yes. I don’t even pretend to be surprised. His kiss is every bit as good as I knew it would be.
He smiles against my mouth, his beard tickling my chin. I feel it like a beam of sunshine on a cold day. Then he sets me back onto my heels. “You’re welcome for that, too,” he says.
It’s an infuriating thing to say. But only because he’s right. Both the kiss and the drink are the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I open my mouth to tell him so, but nothing comes out. I feel flushed and a little off-kilter.
He pats my hip. “Skedaddle back onto your side of the bar, miss, before Mr. Dirello happens to walk through here.”
No witty comment presents itself to me. No cynical backtalk. I retreat back to my usual spot. He tidies up again while I sip my perfect cocktail and try to get my head on straight again.
“How’s the mojito?” he asks without looking me in the eye.
“You know it’s good. You’re just fishing for compliments.” We’re not talking only about the drink, either.
“Uh-huh.” He gives me a smile. “Write anything good today?”
“It’s getting there.” I glance down at my notes and try to remember what I was thinking about fifteen minutes ago. “Some songs come easy, and some of them are like pulling teeth.”
“Which kind was ‘Sparkle On’?”
I blink at him for a second, because I’m surprised he remembers the title of my favorite song. “That one was easy. I wrote it in an hour. I mean—I tweaked the lyrics afterward. But the guts of it came out of my guitar, fully formed. Why?”
“Someday…” He shakes his head. “Someday I’m going to hear that song everywhere. I’ll be walking down the beach and hear it blaring out of three different radios at once.”
For a split second—before I can rein it in—I let the pure joy I’m feeling break across my face. God, I want that so badly. But it doesn’t do any good to think like that. “That’s your pick, huh? ‘Sparkle On.’ I would’ve taken you for more of an uptempo guy. ‘Sparkle On’ is my girliest song.
“It’s not my usual sound,” he admits. “But it’s your sound. And you made a woman cry.” He tosses the rag in the sink. “I think maybe the world needs ‘Sparkle On.’”
Oh my. I just sit with that for a second. Every artist loves praise. If she says she doesn’t, she’s a liar. But the quality of that praise is so unlike anything I’ve heard before, that I need a moment just to appreciate it.
When Brett talks about my music, he uses words like demographic and market potential. But Ralph felt my song.
My poor little heart creaks again.
“Besides,” Ralph says, lightening the mood. “Can a dude not want to sparkle on? Are you insulting my manhood right now?”
“Maybe just a tiny little bit,” I say with an evil smile.
“Don’t ever use ‘tiny little’ when we’re discussing my manhood, okay?”
I actually giggle, which never happens. It sounds all wrong on me. I take another sip and change the subject. “Enough about me. Have you made any progress on your Plan B?”
“A little,” he admits. “It’s still not my favorite topic. But I’ve been looking at some masters programs in education.”
“Whoa!” I can totally picture this. “High school teacher? The girls will all stay after class every day just for a few extra minutes of your time.”
“Nah.” He rolls his eyes. “Besides—the only girl I want is the one in front of me.“
Oh.
We’re both quiet for a second after that little truth bomb. “What will you teach?” I finally ask.
“History, maybe.” He rubs his fingertips through his beard. “And I want to coach.”
“Coach what?” I hold up a hand. “Wait, don’t tell me. The surfing team.”
“Surfing team? Is that a thing?” He laughs.
“I don’t know. You’re the Californian. Didn’t you offer to teach me how to surf?”
“Yeah, but you always say no.” We have this conversation almost as often as we discuss my phone number. “Any day, anytime. I’m totally serious.”
“How about Friday?” I hear myself ask.
“Done,” he says immediately.
Uh-oh. What did I just do? “Can you get Friday afternoon off from the bar?”
“Mr. Dirello!” he hollers immediately. “I need Friday afternoon off. I can be back by the dinner rush.”
“What for?” an older man’s voice barks from somewhere in the kitchen.
“I’m teaching a surfing lesson.”
“You’re moonlighting?”
“No, it’s for a friend.”
“She pretty?”
“Devastating,” he says, looking me right in the eyes. There’s a beat of silence while Ralph and I stare at each other.
I can’t believe I finally agreed to hang out with him, and right before I’m scheduled to leave town. It’s either a brilliant idea or heartbreaking.
But the restaurateur seals the deal. “Eh, okay, kid. After the lunch rush is done. And you come back at sunset.”
“Thanks, man.”
Well. I guess I’m going surfing on Friday. “Wow, okay. What do I need to bring?”
“Not a thing,” he says. “Just wear a bikini. The smaller the better. It’s more aerodynamic.”
“Ralph.”
“Kidding! I’ll bring you a rash guard as well as a board. This is going to be great.” He looks thrilled, honestly.
“There will be a couple of rules,” I say slowly. “Don’t stand me up.”
“That’s an easy one. I would never.”
“And you won’t get me into bed. So don’t try.”
His smile says, Oh, I’ll try. But he jerks a thumb toward the kitchen. “You heard the man. I have to come back to work.”
“And promise you won’t let me drown.”
His smile fades. “You’ll be absolutely safe. I’ll bring you a life vest so you don’t have to even think about
it.”
“Do you think I can do this? I’m not very coordinated.”
“You can totally do this. It’s going to be so much fun…” But then his face falls. “Heads up. Your jailer has arrived.”
“Oh, brother.” I flip my notebook shut. Brett seems to fetch me from this place a little earlier every day.
“Delilah!” he barks. “Time to go. What the hell are you drinking? Don’t you learn?”
Across from me, Ralph goes pale.
“Hey!” I snap. “I made this drink myself.”
“With the professional bartender’s help?” He gives Ralph a cutting look. I don’t know what passed between these two in high school, but it couldn’t have been good.
“You think I can’t mix a drink for myself?” I ask, feeling tired. “He’s not my bartender. He’s my surfing instructor.”
“Your—?” He scowls. “Let’s just go. Don’t keep other songwriters waiting.”
“Wouldn’t want to be rude or anything.” I give Ralph a wink. “Bye, Ralph.”
“Don’t forget about your lesson!” he calls after me. “Friday. Three o’clock.”
I stop, shaking off Brett’s hand. “Wait. Where do I meet you?”
“Darlington Beach, beside the lifeguard station.”
I give him a giant smile, because that sounds like so much fun. “I’ll be there.”
Brett makes an ornery sound beside me. But I ignore it.
As it happens, I do wear a bikini on Friday. A little one. A last-minute fling with Ralph is probably a terrible idea, but he’s so wonderful. Almost too good to be true.
And I’m not the most disciplined girl. Sue me.
Friday is another beautiful California beach day. The sky is so blue it hurts my eyes. I bring a towel from Brett’s guesthouse. I feel weird about staying there all summer for free. Maybe he expected us to have a lot of sex in the guest bed.
He still wants to, but he doesn’t seem mad about it. If anything, he just seems more determined. Brett is a puzzle in my life that I can’t solve. It’s clear that he wants me. But he also wants my music.
