Page 176 of Catch the Sun

“It’s a Dr Pepper bomb. Shot of rum at the bottom.”

“Thanks. I must’ve missed the warning.”

“And miss your reaction? Never.”

I glare at him through an amused grin. “I’m not even of legal drinking age yet.”

He glances at his invisible watch. “Only two more hours. Worth the risk.”

Music spills out of one the vintage jukeboxes, and I glance right, spotting a cluster of twentysomethings browsing through the song list. The dive bar is called Retro Rhythms, a nod to the nostalgia of the past. It’s a meshing of aged wood, dim lighting, and a kaleidoscope of colorful vinyl album covers littering the walls. The smell of worn leather and hints of tobacco float through the air, fusing with the laughter and chatter of young and old patrons.

I was never much of a bar girl, but the name caught my attention one day while I was exploring the town’s local shops and restaurants.

It’s all about the rhythm…

Anderson is my favorite bartender. He’s a late-thirties father of two, married to the owner, and he always welcomes me with a smile and a Dr Pepper when I pop in for my usual Friday routine.

I drink a Dr Pepper.

And then I dance.

“You better get a song in before those college kids murder my eardrums with country music,” he tells me, mixing a concoction of vodka and lemon juice.

I laugh when he visibly shudders.

“I got you,” I say back, drinking down the uncompromised beverage, slapping a twenty-dollar bill on the counter, and hopping off the stool with a salute.

When the country song ends, I wind over to the jukebox and insert my debit card, already knowing my song selection. A moment later, Stevie Nicks fills the room with “Rhiannon.”

A bright smile tips my mouth.

I make my way out to the center of the dance floor, hips swaying, the smile sticking to my face, and my hair sashaying all around me. A few regulars cheer me on, clapping and whistling. Sweat slicks along my hairline as I undulate under the lights, and music fills my soul.

Three minutes of restoration.

Three minutes of pure therapy.

Three minutes where I’m with him and he’s with me, and we’re dancing on a bridge beneath the stars, his arms around me, my cheek pressed to his pine-scented chest.

I feel him more than ever in these moments. I feel his warmth, his strength, his careful fingers stroking back my hair. I inhale his familiar nature-steeped scent and hear a single word whispered against my ear:“Stay.”

Within these three minutes, I do stay. I never leave Juniper Falls. Tragedy never claws its way through us with black-tipped talons. It doesn’t infect us,doesn’t contaminate everything precious and good.

There is no Jonah. No McKay. No terror, no bloodshed, no tears.

There are only Max and Ella, swaying on an old bridge over the water with a sun-inspired playlist as our soundtrack.

I slowly lift my arms over my head, then drag my fingers through my hair as my hips twirl, my neck swivels, and my pulse thrums. My eyes remain closed. Images burst to life in full color within my mind’s eye and I savor every second in his arms.

And for a moment, I think Idofeel him.

My skin tingles with a strange familiarity. A pinprick of intuition. Like something is giving my soul a warm hug.

“Souls don’t see, Sunny. Souls feel.”

I open my eyes and glance around the dance floor, gaze sweeping from face to face, shadow to shadow, while I keep moving, keep swaying in slow motion.

Nothing.

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