Page 8 of Poetry By Dead Men
“Um... Do you go to school around here?” I ask, uncomfortable with the compliment. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I cringe. There’s no way he’s in high school. His shoulders are too broad, his eyes too knowing.
His answering smile is so warm, I have to shift away from the fire a bit.
“No, I graduated last year. I teach guitar and piano lessons around the city. Sometimes some handyman work here and there.”
I can’t help but glance down at his strong hands.
“I perform at night,” he continues. “Bars. Restaurants. Anywhere I can, really.”
Images of smoky bars with dim lighting fill my mind. I turned eighteen a few months ago, but I’ve never been anywhere like the places he probably plays. My normal haunts include this coffee shop and dinners with my family at establishments that require overcoats. No hats or shaggy hair allowed.
As if reading my mind, he pulls off his baseball cap, shaking his hair from his eyes before flipping the hat around and putting it on backward. My whole body screams in response.Am I drooling?My stomach clenches, and I try to pull my eyes away, but Ican’t. There’s something about the confidence of his movements. The absolute aura of contentment and peace.
“You’re happy,” I say. It’s an observation more than a question, andanotherembarrassing, random thing I blurt out without thinking.
He quirks an eyebrow at me.“Are you not?” His face creases in concern, and it makes my heart flutter.
“I’m…” The word won’t come to me. I’m notunhappy. I have good friends, and even if my family is overbearing, they love me. I’ve never wanted for anything, so how selfish and bratty would it be for me to admit that I feel like my life is missing something? “I'm almost there,” I settle on.
He cocks his head at me, his eyes so focused on my face that the blood rushes back into my cheeks, and I’m forced to look away. Looking at him… It’s too…intense? Like there’s some sort of connection buzzing between us, and if I stare into it for too long, I’ll be sucked in forever.
“Almost there, huh?” He leans back and flips the page in his notebook, scratching something out at the top. A title. “Let’s see if we can get you all the way there, Beth.”
His smile reaches his eyes again, and my name is a caress on his tongue. It’s caring. Tender, somehow. And even though I’m rational to a fault, even though it’s crazy and foolish, I know without a doubt that my name on his lips is the beginning of something life changing.
NOW
August 2024
Honey, would you please get me a drink?
A scotch.
Neat, I think.
—Harrison Rouchester, walking into his engagement party with Beth Winters
The second I cross the threshold into the venue, I feel him. It’s in the buzz of excitement thickening the air, making it hard to breathe. In the palpable electricity crackling along my skin.
Harrison sees a client he’s been trying to contact, and with an apology and a kiss on the cheek, he beelines toward him, asking me to bring him over a scotch. Neat.
He says it in a rhyme, laughing as if it’s the equivalent of a Shakespearean comedy.
I head toward the bar, not because he asked me to, but becauseImyself need a drink. Fortunately, I only make it six steps before Molly’s there, pushing a crystal glass of champagne into my hand and leading me by the elbow to the linen-draped wall she designed in the back of the venue. Hundreds of white roses are attached to the fabric, a perfect backdrop for photos, and I take a deep inhale.
Maybe the sweet floral scent can push down the bitter taste of bile in my throat.
"I told you to stop turning your phone on silent. I called you like ten times!" She waves me off before I can answer. "Never mind. Listen, I need you to prepare yourself," Molly says, grabbing my shoulders. I lift the glass, swallowing the contents in two seamless gulps.
"May I?" I take the second glass from her hand and down it before she can answer.
"Youknow?" Her brown eyes go wide. "You know, and you walked through those doors?Willingly?"
"You look great. Is that a new dress?" I ask, wiping my mouth. I need to change the subject, think ofanythingelse, before I throw up.
"Wha—Sorry. Am I having a stroke, or are youactuallytalking about my clothing choice when you should be freaking out?" Her voice turns into a whisper shout.
"Iamfreaking out. This is me freaking out." I look around for a server, hoping I can snag a third glass of champagne.
