Page 55 of Falling For Temptation

I’ve been sitting in my Chevy outside the bar since ten p.m. Water is pelting the windshield as my knee bounces. I struggle to focus on my textbook for business math. The equations are jumbles of words and letters, like I’ve suddenly forgotten how to read English. The stereo clock reads 1:10.

I’m here because I can’t be anywhere else. That’s the only explanation my mind can form. She doesn’t have a car, and the streets downtown are completely unsafe for a woman walking alone at night. Anyone knows that, even a hick like me raised on a farm.

I could go in and sit, order a Coke and French fries. She’d have to serve me and talk to me. Maybe I could give her the letter. Would that be cruel of me?

Dan insists nothing happened after I left to get firewood. He said Harley talked to my dad for a little while, then suddenly got up and left. I know my father. He’s a kind and loving man. He would never say anything to hurt her.

Even so, I asked him about it. I asked what they talked about and if anything was said that might upset her. He said all he talked to her about was our class together. I have no reason to believe he would lie to me—he never has. His voice was tinged with concern, asking me if she got home okay after walking out.

But I have to know why. I have to understand. Did she get overwhelmed, being around so many little kids?

Was it the happy, loving family thing? I can’t imagine how that must make her feel, considering she was in foster homes, growing up. She told me a little about it, but she didn’t give a lot of details. It seems painful for her to talk about, and I get a little sick when I think about what kinds of things she must have experienced.

I reach for the handle, the old, creaky door groaning as I step out into the rainy street. Deliberate steps take me up to Billy’s Pub, and I pull on the heavy wooden door. Stepping through the entrance, I see only three patrons scattered around the interior. Leather and wood give it a classy, antique vibe. It’s the only bar I’ve ever been inside, but it’s a comfortable atmosphere.

The dark-haired woman who Harley works with looks up at me from behind the bar top, thankfully giving me a smile.

“Hey, handsome. She’s out back.” She gestures for me to follow her.

I breathe out a sigh, grateful they aren’t kicking me out.

“Thanks. Is it Sal?” I ask, remembering her name from one of Harley’s stories.

She smiles and nods, eyes roving over my damp clothing.

“I hope you can cheer that girl up. She’s been sulking all night. You gotta brother?” she asks as we walk through a storage room of bottles and crates.

“I have seven brothers,” I respond.

She halts her steps, mouth agape.

“Shit.” She looks over me again, eyes wide. “God bless your momma.” She shakes her head. Gesturing to a dingy black metal door at the back, she says, “She’s out there, having a smoke break.” She smiles and winks at me, walking back out front.

This is the first time I’ve heard about Harley smoking. She’s never done it in front of me, which makes me wonder how much I really know about her.

Pushing the door open, I step out. There’s a small two-foot overhang right outside the door to stand under and avoid getting rained on. I don’t see Harley. There’s a square wooden crate with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter resting on it.

Looking around, I see a large dumpster to the right side, a tall fence behind it. I drift in the other direction, where there’s a dark alley. As I turn the corner, I see her.

She’s sitting on another wooden crate, face turned toward the street. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, but it’s still coming down on her.

“Harley,” I say, still a few steps away.

She doesn’t turn toward me, just sighs.

“Adam,” is all she says. Her voice sounds tired.

I glance up to see what she’s looking at. She has a clear view of my truck, where it’s been parked the last three hours. I gulp, heat crawling up my neck.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask hoarsely, taking a step closer to her.

“Just watching you watch me,” she responds, eyes still turned away from me.

I get to her, tentatively reaching out toward her shoulder. She flinches at my touch, jumping up.

“Don’t,” she pleads. Her face looks over me, clear eyes rimmed pink. Her hands are clenched in tiny fists at her sides.

“You should come inside, out of the rain.” As I say it, the drops flow harder, and we really start to get soaked. Neither of us moves toward cover.

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