Page 10 of Beards and Broken Hearts

“Your throne is mine, old man,” he teases, but honestly, he can have it. Especially if it will save me from this yearly meat fest.

The music starts, and the first man walks the plank…well, bar top, but it might as well be. He struts his stuff. His beard is short, but he makes up for it in moves, dancing to the R&B song and giving the ladies a good show. The hoots and hollers erupt, and I notice for the first time that a lot of the audience are older women with fluffy white hair.

“I really hope my grandmother is not here,” I mutter.

“Elenore? Is she? I wouldn’t doubt it for a minute,” Jenson laughs.

“Next up, we have Gregory,” Blake announces, and the man steps forward, dancing awkwardly, looking as uncomfortable as I feel when I get up there.

If I’m honest, I think I’ve only won this competition in the past because my family has lived in town forever, and everyone already knows me. At one point or another, I’ve helped most patrons with something fire-related. That, or I went to school with their kid. The latter is usually the case since Magnolia Point is fairly quiet.

Another man goes up, and then another. The crowd gets increasingly hyped as they go, and when it’s my turn, I take a deep breath and step up.

“It’s for the station. It’s for charity, you can do this. It’ll be over in a minute.”

Jenson just laughs as he playfully pushes my shoulder.

“Next up, the man, the myth, the legendary beard himself, Layton Michaels!”

For some reason, Blake now sounds like a WWE ref, but I take a step forward and another, then attempt to move my hips a little.

Shouts echo around, and the crowd is clearly having a great time. Drinks flow freely, and everyone cheers me on. After doing this same walk for five years, you’d think I’d do a better job.

Halfway down the bar top, I freeze in my tracks. Struck stupid by a pair of blue eyes that are just as shocked to see me.

Daphne sits while women around her are on their feet, cheering and chanting. Some wave their glasses or dollar bills, but she’s sitting there with those perfect lips parted in surprise.

Suddenly feeling more motivated, I decide to really shock her. I lift my shirt off slowly to the rhythm of the music. Keeping my eyes on her, then waving it above my head. The women all scream in delight, all but Daphne. I watch her every move, and a sweet smile breaks across her face. I know I’m asking for trouble. Acting like this is not in my nature, but this woman has always pushed me out of my comfort zone.

As I continue to dance down the bar, eyes unable to leave Daphne’s. I catch her fighting that smile. Something about her trying to hide it makes me want it all the more. Considering it a challenge, I bust out moves I have never considered doing. I thrust my hips and gyrate to the rhythm of the song.

I’m not bothering to hide my smile. I can’t. Don’t think I’ve had this much fun in years. This woman has every right to hate my ass, but when I hear her scream above everyone else, I count it as a personal victory.

When I reach the end of the bar, I am disappointed that it’s over. So, in one last ditch effort, I toss her my shirt, making the woman go feral. It lands perfectly on her head, covering her face, and I laugh as I climb down. She’s still too far into the crowd for me to reach, and honestly, I wouldn’t dare try. Hands claw at me as I move through the crowd. One lady even tries to slip me her number and I politely decline.

Jenson takes the stage, drawing the attention away from me, even slightly. This is the part of the night I usually just run out and when my name is called as the winner. They know the Firehouse is the charity I want all the proceeds to go to.

Standing at the door, I stop for a second, wishing things were different with Daphne and I could just go over and sit with her. Things were always more exciting with that woman, but I push through the door and leave. Jenson will probably stay and take someone home, so I don’t bother saying goodbye. I’m not brave enough to hang out with no shirt anyway, so I make my way to my truck.

The fall air is cool on my bare skin, but inside the cab, it is hot as hell. As I drive home, I can’t help the smile glued to my face. Remembering her chants of encouragement.

It doesn’t escape me that I’m driving through town shirtless in September, but somehow, this feels exciting, too. Teenage Daphne might not be a drinker, but I guess the grown-up version is. I wonder again what else has changed since we were kids and if she’d like the grown-up me, or still hate the coward who ghosted her.

At home, I find a t-shirt and sweatpants to change into and reach into my mostly empty fridge for another beer. Just as I open it, my phone rings.

“Hey man, are you calling to gloat?” I ask Jenson.

“Nah, man, you won again, which I think is favoritism after the show I put on.”

I laugh, but part of me feels some pride, hoping I got Daphne’s vote. Not that it matters.

“The crowd was great tonight, but guess who I ran into after you bolted?”

My mind goes straight to the woman I can’t stop thinking about, and I grit my teeth, assuming the worst. The man might be my best friend, but the last thing I want is to pretend to be okay with him taking her home tonight. The thought is ridiculous. She’s not mine and never will be again, but the idea feels more like a nightmare, and I brace myself for what he’ll tell me.

“Elenore is here!” Background laughter echoes through the phone, filling my quiet kitchen, and I sigh in relief. “She brought a large group of ladies with her to celebrate,” suddenly he stops mid-sentence.

“Celebrate what? Oh,” I say, catching onto what he didn’t want to tell me. “Her wedding, I assume?”

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