Page 5 of Love Unavoidable
Like, real good.
Two out of the group of five men are groomsmen, and I already know they are connected to the two matrons of honor because I’ve seen them together. Not that it would be hard to miss the way their eyes follow those ladies around. Those guys have got it bad. Two others, numbers three and four, are nice to look at, but they don’t do it for me the way California man number five does. He looks like every surfer guy fantasy I’ve ever had come true. And I’ve had a lot of them. I am a little obsessed with the idea of surfing. Just not necessarily the reality of it.
Because, sharks.
Also because the little town we are from, just outside of Amarillo, Texas, is one hundred percent landlocked. So, I’ve never been exposed to anything like it. Despite my fears, one of my goals is to try surfing at least once in the open water. If the last three weeks of self-reflection after leaving Aaron have taught me nothing else, it’s that I need to change. Bust out of my shell and become a whole new person. The person I was meant to be.
And it just so happens that person is not afraid to surf and will pretend sharks don’t exist.
I think.
Maybe I can get California man number five to teach me.
God, I hope he surfs and is not a guy that just looks the type.
I catch his eye from across the room. The third time in the last fifteen minutes or so. His hair flops over his eyes on one side, green eyes sparkle with mischief, and the left side of his face has a dimple I want to stick my tongue in.
“I want a lightning bolt, Sadie,” my new friend says.
I’ve got to remember her name.
“Yeah, you and everyone else in the world. And only ‘cause y’all don’t realize it’s a total crock of shit, right? Come on, lightnin’ bolt, my ass,” I say a little too loudly.
“Sadie Ann! That you over here sounding ornery enough to make a hornet seem cuddly?” I hear my grandmother’s sarcastic scorn long before I see her. I close my eyes and drop my head to my chest.
“Don’t let her see me,” I whisper to my friend, she nods in return.
If I can’t see Grandma Babs, she can’t see me.
“She’d hafta be dumber than a watermelon to miss you plantin’ roots at this here bar, tighter than bark on a log, I tell ya.” Babs pulls an empty stool between my new friend and me, forcing her to move down the bar.
“You wanna talk about it?” Babs turns toward me.
“No,” I say.
“This about Aaron bein’ here?”
“No.”
Yes.
Babs signals for the bartender. “Hi, sugar, how about you just leave us the bottle, okay?” He places a three-quarter full bottle of Basil Hayden bourbon and two clean glasses in front of us. Babs fills each of our glasses, then turns in her seat so that her back is against the edge of the bar.
“You got the lemon face cause o’ all this then?” She motions to the crowd in front of us. “Because I know I don’t have to tell you how shitty it’d be for you to not be happy for your cousin just ‘cause he’s doing the same thing you ran from.”
“It’s not.”
It is.
“That’d be about lower than a snake’s belly in a wheel rut, Sadie Ann.”
“It’s not.”
It is. I am the shittiest of shitty cousins.
“Well, that’s good to hear. Then you should have no problem with dancin’ and havin’ some fun.”
“I don’t.”
