Page 69 of Racing for Redemption
“Anyway,” he continues briskly, “tell me about that summer you spent going to indie rock shows.”
And just like that, we’re back to easy conversation. William tells me about his first concert, and I counter with the story of how Anna and I talked our way backstage at a festival by pretending to be music journalists.
The drive passes quickly, Birmingham’s lights appearing on the horizon before I expect them. William navigates the city with familiar ease, pointing out landmarks and sharing random facts about venues he’s visited.
“Hungry?” he asks as we approach the city center. “There’s a decent place near the venue. Nothing fancy, but they make a great burger.”
“Lead the way. I’m starving.”
He parks in a small lot behind a row of brick buildings and leads me to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with mismatched chairs, and tables that wobble. The menu is written on a chalkboard, and the place smells of grease and spices. It’s about as far from my usual dining experiences as possible. Not that I’m fancy, but the dinners I attend would never be held in a place like this.
“Trust me?” William asks, eyebrow raised.
I nod, and he orders for both of us. The food arrives quickly—loaded burgers, and thick-cut fries that steam in the cool air. It’s messy and perfect, the kind of meal that requires multiple napkins and no shyness.
“This is so good,” I admit between bites. “How did you find this place?”
“I explore before races. Helps clear my head.” He steals one of my fries despite having his own. “Finding places tourists don’t know about is my specialty.”
“You’re hardly a tourist,” I add as I bite into the burger again.
He seems to be choosing which fry is next to be gobbled up and turns to me as he puts one in his mouth. “I may be British on my passport, but I was born in the US, so I’ve always considered myself a tourist of sorts around here.”
“If anything, the tourist is me. I didn’t even know Birmingham had this burger joint.” I wipe my mouth with a tissue.
“Well, you’re more of a sweets type of person. I bet you know all the good ones.” He faces me as he rests his head in his hand. The crinkles around his eyes make him look older than he is, and the corners of his lips curl up in a warm smile that makes me smile back.
“You’re not wrong. But I’m trying to control myself lately. Don’t want to rip my ‘power suits,’ you know?”
He lets out a hearty laugh and says, “You’d still look beautiful.” He turns back to his food as I’m left with my face burning up after the unexpected comment.
After dinner, we head across the street to the venue—a narrow building with peeling paint, and a neon sign that flickers.
“Don’t judge by appearances,” William says, noticing my expression. “Some of the best shows happen in the most questionable-looking places.”
“Not judging, just observing.”
“Violet Colton.” He pauses to look me in the eye. “You don’t just ‘observe.’ I’ve been around you long enough to know that.”
I snort and lower my gaze. “Touché. I may have been judging it a bit.”
“Come,” he says as his hand comes close to my back but not touching. “Let’s get inside to avoid getting stuck in the center of the venue. I don’t want you to fly against a wall, shoved by some dude in the mosh pit.”
Inside, the venue is larger than it appeared from outside, but still intimate. A small stage dominates one end, and there’s a bar along the side wall. People mill about, but it’s not crowded.
“Not much of a turnout,” I observe.
William shrugs. “Indie band. They’re still building their following. Sometimes, these are the best shows—bands with something to prove play harder.”
“Reminds me of us.” I scoff.
“Indeed.” His hand rests on my shoulder. “And that’s the exciting part. Passion. Heart. Chasing a dream.”
He hands me a ticket he’s apparently already purchased, his fingers brushing mine. The casual contact shouldn’t register, but somehow it does.
“That’s for you to remember this night out,” he says, eyes bright with anticipation.
A surge of excitement washes over me that has nothing to do with the band, and everything to do with being here, now, with this unexpected version of William Foster—who talks with his hands, and steals fries, and knows the perfect hole-in-the-wall burger joint in Birmingham.
