Page 33 of Lovetown, USA
“I’m following you.”
She leads us out the door and across the busy four-lane thoroughfare. We run and giggle like almost getting hit by cars is funny, then we duck into a bar called Velvet Kiss. Inside, it’s darkly romantic with it’s deep burgundy walls, soft, velvet-covered booths, and unfairly attractive waitstaff.
We slide into a booth. Shayla orders a mezcal old fashioned. I get a dirty martini, of course, and when the drinks come out, we raise our glasses.
“Cheers to being two bad bitches,” I say.
We clink glasses, and then the conversation begins to flow over the Ari Lennox song playing softly in the background.
“Journalism,” she says. “Wow. I wouldn’t have guessed that.”
I take a hearty sip. “What would you have guessed?”
She smiles as her eyes rake over me. “Supermodel?’
“Girl, bye,” I laugh. “I’m five-four on a tall day.”
“Face card,” she explains. “Maybe print.”
“Maybe stop gassing me up,” I say to her laughter. “Actually, my dream was to host a nightly news show. CNN.Sixty Minutes. Dateline.”
Shayla nods. “Keep at it. I’m sure you’ll get there.”
I don’t respond to that. Thereisno response, really, because my dream is over at this point, and I only have myself to blame.
“What doyoudo?” I ask, anxious to sail past the moment.
“I’m a musical therapist.”
“Interesting. What does that entail?”
Her brows lift, her face lights up, and her voice goes all professional as she gives me her elevator speech.
“Basically, I use music to help trauma survivors and special needs patients process their emotions.”
“Fascinating,” I say. “I bet that’s way more interesting than journalism.”
She shrugs. “Probably not as exciting, though. And less cutthroat.”
“Facts.” I down the rest of my martini. “So how long have you lived here?”
“In Lovetown? All my life.”
“Really?” Hearing those words excites me. “So you have some good insight, then.”
“Into what?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe the fact that this town treats dating like it’s your civic duty.”
She laughs softly. “That’s actually a more recent development.” She drains her drink, then raises a hand to flag down a waiter. “I know this place as Maple Grove.”
“So then you just date normally.”
“Of course.” She leans back and rests her arm on the top of the booth, her body relaxing like she’s in her element. “Most of us do. It’s the transplants who come here for the love bullshit.”
I’m sure my face lights up like a kid in a candy store. “So you think it’s a scam, too?”
She lifts a shoulder. “Never really thought about it.” She leans forward, her voice going soft. “I’d rather talk about something else, though.”
