Page 27 of One Hotlanta Night
That fateful day, I’d had yet another major blowout with my mother, followed by a snippy conversation with Trent where I told him I couldn’t physically handle coming to his concert. After an all-day fibro flare where my shoulders felt like Mike Tyson’s punching bag, the idea of tolerating a noisy crowd where I was guaranteed to get pushed around in the standing-room-only space of a tiny bar was too exhausting. Trent told me he didn’t even think what I was experiencing was real, that I was faking it, before hanging up on me.
Why I hadn’t ended it right then was beyond me. I’d always thought myself to be a strong person, but that day a feather could have knocked me into my grave.
I’d gotten into my little car and driven aimlessly down toward Gwinnett, pulling into the first restaurant I found. I don’t know what persuaded Claire to sit down and listen to the problems of a tear-streaked stranger. But by the end of the day, she’d cried along with me and had me laughing and hugging her.
She’d confided her own struggles to me as a single parent of a newly diagnosed type one diabetic child, and I’d tried toencourage her the best I could. My best friend growing up had juvenile diabetes, and I’d seen her go through a lot. That same friend was now successfully graduating college (a fact my mom never hesitated to throw in my face) and on track to becoming a diabetes educator.
Claire must’ve needed someone to talk to as much as I did, because she immediately made plans for me to come to her house for a movie night and to meet Raelynn. That girls’ night turned into a sleepover. There were hours of laughter—and tequila, once Raelynn had gone to bed. We spent the whole weekend bonding, laughing, crying, trading stories about family, guys, and unconventional childhoods.
And I kinda never really left.
When Claire officially hired me to manage at her family restaurant, I moved in to help out with Raelynn’s care, and that was it. Her husband Paul had been killed on his second tour of Afghanistan; he’d never even had a chance to meet his daughter. Their relationship was the only area of her life she didn’t talk about.
Reading between the lines, I suspected there had been abuse involved, but she never elaborated. Not that I could blame her for not wanting to revisit the trauma. All I’d gotten from Claire was that she’d been making plans to leave Paul when she learned she was pregnant. Her conservative hometown was small, the kind of small where everyone knows everyone else’s business, and did not look kindly on divorce. If she split from her husband, regardless of how he was hurting her, she wouldn’t have the family support needed to raise Raelynn on her own. It sounded like a risk she couldn’t take.
The irony was with Paul dead, raising her daughter alone was exactly what she had to do. Her sister-in-law helped out some, looking after Raelynn while Claire worked, but they didn’t keep an eye on her sugars the way she really needed. A few hours wasfine, but a full day with her aunt and uncle could be disastrous for Raelynn (and by extension, Claire). It was nerve-wracking to be sure, so Claire tried to align our schedules as much as possible so that Raelynn was with one of us. My experience with my childhood bestie meant that Claire had more faith in someone she had known for only a short time versus family she’d known for years. Shitty family that wasn’t willing to learn what it took to keep a sweet little four-year-old healthy.
As for me, I’d gained the best possible friend a girl could ask for, and I was still close by so that my mom didn’t have to worry about how fibromyalgia affected my ability to be independent. I’d lived with Claire for a while now, and things were a lot more stable for me. My fibro was under control as much as a chronic condition could be. I had a manageable car payment, money in the bank, and was looking at going back to school. A relationship was not a requirement for success.
I wrap my hands around the hot coffee cup, remembering how Claire had 100 percent supported my decision to take a break from guys and relationships. And then encouraged me—was it only just last night?—to have fun and take a chance. A few months of celibacy did help clear my mind, now that it wasn’t clogged up with guy drama.
But I was still apprehensive to tell her about meeting Michael. I knew she wouldn’t judge me, just like I knew she would be able to read everything on my face if I tried to downplay how he’d made me feel. How just thinking about him was causing my face to flush and those butterflies to spin around in my stomach. “So,” I take a fortifying sip, “I met someone last night.”
“I knew it!” she crows, throwing her fist up in the air. “I just had a feeling about it. I knew something good was going to happen to you.” She grins. Claire’s always had a sixth sense about things happening, good, bad, or otherwise, so I take this as a good sign. “Or someone,” she adds, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Stop it.” I gesture helplessly, faking a punch in her direction.
“Tell me alllll about him and don’t leave anything out. Start with his name.”
“His name is Michael,” I begin.
“Good strong name, I like it,” she encourages me. “Go on.”
“And he’s…” I falter. How do I put into words how wonderful he made me feel last night? “He’s just… amazing.” That one word that isn’t enough to encompass Michael. Or how my heart flips just thinking about him. “I don’t know how to describe it. He made me feel like I was the only person in the world. Like I mattered, you know? We talked and danced and I could have spent the whole night with him. I mean, that’s kind of what happened.”
“How did you meet him?” she asks, propping her chin on her hand as she watches me with sparkling eyes. If you ever need a cheerleader, someone in your court who wants the best for you, Claire is your girl.
I smile and tell her how I spotted him—or rather, how he spotted me—and the way his eyes pierced me. How I thought I might melt from the heat of his gaze. How I thought he was about to walk past me and I grabbed his hand to stop him. “And then he just pulled me into him and we started dancing. It was so… nice,” I finish.
“Nice?” she asks, eyebrows raised. “You don’t really do ‘nice,’ Vivian.”
“You’re right. Nice is probably not how I would describe him. He was confident as hell. But also attentive. Like, he took the lead and everything.”
“He what?”
“Yeah,” I go on dreamily. “He took my hands and made it look so natural when it wassoobvious I had no clue what I was doing.”
She snorts. “Like you’ve ever had any issues dancing.”
“I’m serious, girl, this is nothing like what we normally do. And definitely not like our line-dancing bars.”
“Okay, so what’s so different about it? You’re still moving to the music.”
“It’s everything. The way the rhythm flows, the beats, the people… oh, my word, the people! You would not believe how different it is! There are seniors, and youngins who are barely out of high school, and everything in between.” She shoots an eyebrow up, because, yeah, that would probably include me. If it didn’t feel like I’d already lived three decades, that is. “I’m telling you, it was really awesome to see them all dancing together. You can tell they’ve been doing it a long time. Michael said he grew up with his paquita dancing in the kitchen.”
“His pa-what?”
“He said it’s a Spanish nickname for his grandma.”
