Page 70 of Triple Play

“Don’t.” He shrugs. “It was my job to lose.” Said with a dry acceptance of facts, the same one Shira had, the one I’m slowly coming to realize is the hallmark of being an adult. Stuff happens and you deal with it, however imperfectly.

“Can I see it—the farm?” I ask.

Felix digs his phone from his pocket. Cues up a set of pictures with a sheepish grin as if he expects me to nod with polite disinterest as I thumb through them. But there’s a whole album of images: Cows munching in pasture on gently rolling emerald hills. A woman—possibly his sister or her wife—breaking a film of ice that covers a water trough in the early morning. Stalks pushing up through rich soil seeking morning light.

“It’s so green,” I say, a little dumbly.

Felix smiles, shy and proud. “Yeah.”

I scroll through photos as Shira rests the point of her chin on my shoulder. A particular swipe backs out of the photo roll into the album they’re kept in, which is labeled Farm pics for Melody. “Who’s Melody?” I ask.

Felix’s smile goes a little sad. “A girl I was hung up on. She liked when I showed her pictures of life in the country.”

“There’s a lot in here.”

“Whenever I get a good one, I put it in there in case I see her again.” He says it like there’s a story behind it, like I’ve tapped into a deep vein of regret.

“You had a falling out?” I ask.

Felix’s cheeks might be tan from a winter working outside, but he’s still pale enough to flush. “You ever have someone you want everybody in your life to know about? I’d tell the cows about her in the morning. Sometimes, I’d lie in the fields at night and talk about her with the stars.” He blushes a deeper red.

“You must’ve really liked her.”

“I did.” He chews on the interior of his cheek as if he’s deciding whether to add something else. “I still do.”

Next to me, Shira goes still. Oh. I knew she liked Felix. Trusted him. The way I like and have come to trust him. Last night must have been a rebound, his way of getting Melody out of his system. Shira doesn’t have any claim over him, and neither do you. It’s a complex feeling to be jealous of a woman who, from the sound it, already broke his heart.

It’s much easier to pick my margarita up and throw the rest of it back in one long drink. While we’ve been talking, the music’s gotten louder, enough that it covers the conversation of other diners. Loud enough that it drives out everything else.

Shira mentioned that itch she had sometimes, that need to move. I want to make this new, strangely light feeling last. I turn to Shira, who’s moving to the music, mouthing the words as if this is a favorite. I make a mental note of it, just in case it is.

“I was wondering if you wanted to dance with me,” I say.

She eyes the empty dance floor, then breaks into a smile. “Sure—if you can keep up.”

I laugh as she pulls herself off the bench, as I offer her my hand only… “C’mon, Paquette, don’t let us be the only ones embarrassing ourselves out there.”

Felix’s eyebrows rise, but he’s grinning too. “Shira doesn’t look like she’s gonna be embarrassed.”

“I’m not!” she calls. “Now, let’s go. Don’t you know that I’ve always wanted to dance?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Felix

Shira dances like she was born to do it. I’ve seen her dance before—on a stage, on my lap. An entirely different thing from how she’s spinning across the floor like she’s unbound.

Her feet flash in her sneakers, her arms extend above her head. She’s tiny—or was tiny. Now she takes up space. I can’t look away. Not as she does each step like a deliberate surprise. Not as she flashes us a grin as if to say, Told ya I was good at this.

Blake’s still standing beside me. “Oh,” he breathes, low and complimentary, like he’s seeing her for the first time. An oh as if his heart, like mine, is suddenly filling his chest. I thought I was in love with her. What I couldn’t let go of for all those months. What I brought with me on this trip like luggage.

I am still in love with her. But he is too.

Shira spins our way. “You just gonna stand there and gawk?”

“Nope.” Blake offers his hand. “Go easy on me.” He leads, a hand in hers, the other seated on the slimmest part of her waist. Of course he’s good at this.

Something lights within me: this isn’t jealousy. This is something more complicated, like the smoky notes of mezcal. Blake does something—a step that shows off he also has rhythm—and she taps his hip in delight. She’s laughing. She’s loved and that should be enough.

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