Page 56 of Ice Ice Maybe
It was also a wonder how much I was going to miss that.
“And Zena drools on all the pillows,” Nolan smirked. “I swear, the woman is like a Saint Bernard. A cute one, but still …”
I was about to say something flirty, but luckily stopped myself since Dad was watching us. Instead, I playfully pushed Nolan’s arm before retreating to my room, disappointment settling in my chest. The room was beautiful, spacious, and all mine, exactly what I would have wanted last year, last month, or even last week. But now, as I rolled my suitcase against the wall and sat on the king-sized bed, it felt strangely empty without Nolan.
After unpacking, we congregated in the suite’s spacious kitchen, debating our evening plans.
“I’d love to save some sightseeing for tomorrow, before the game,” I said, a hint of excitement in my voice. “But I’ve never been to a real country bar. What do you think about checking out one of the honky tonks and dancing the night away?”
“That sounds perfect,” Nolan said.
We turned to Mom and Dad, trying to mask our hope that they wouldn’t want to join us. To our relief, Dad spoke for both of them.
“Your mother and I are going to hang out here in the suite,” he said, his arm draped casually over her shoulders. “We can pop open a bottle of wine and chat about the future as we enjoy the sunset on the balcony.” He winked at Mom.
“That sounds like the perfect evening,” I said, genuinely happy for them, but internally doing cartwheels at the prospect of quality time with Nolan. “Don’t be surprised if we come back at two in the morning, but we’ll be whisper-quiet.”
Mom waved her hand dismissively. “That's fine. I’m sure we’ll probably turn in early, anyway.”
Nolan and I headed out, rounding the corner and walking almost thirty minutes to Lower Broadway, also known as HonkyTonk Highway. The street was alive with neon lights and the sound of country music spilling from every doorway: Whiskey River Saloon, Layla’s Honky Tonk, Robert’s Western World, Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, Legends Corner and so many others, all within a four-block stretch.
“With all these clubs and bars, how are we going to choose one?” Nolan asked, gesturing at the array of famous venues surrounding us.
“I have no clue …” I shrugged, pointed to the lively establishment directly in front of us, then grabbed him by the hand and pulled him toward the entrance. “We’re here, let’s try this one.”
As we stepped inside Honky Tonk Central, the energy was off the charts. The three-story venue was packed and a country band was in full swing on each level, their twangy guitars and heartfelt vocals filling the air. Cowboy hats bobbed in time with the music as couples twirled across the dance floor, while others ate, drank, and soaked up the great music.
Nolan grabbed two Miller Lites from the bar, but it didn’t take long before we had set them down, the dance floor beckoning us. His hand found mine this time as we attempted to follow along with the line dance, amused at our missteps. The energy was infectious. All around us, people were singing along, their voices joining the band’s in a joyous chorus.
As the night deepened, so did our connection. The frenetic energy of earlier gave way to slower rhythms, our bodies swaying in sync. Nolan’s touch was a constant, electric presence. His fingers grazed mine, played with the soft hair at my nape, and traced feather-light patterns on my lower back. Each point of contact sent shivers through me and left me craving more.
With every shared laugh, every lingering glance, every gentle touch, the facade of our fake relationship crumbled further. Words seemed inadequate, almost intrusive. Instead, we letour eyes speak volumes—vulnerability, hope, admiration, and something even deeper that made my heart race. In the cocoon of dim lights and country melodies in the honky tonk, we were no longer playing roles. We were just us—raw, real, and terrifyingly open. And I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
The opening chords of Lonestar’s “Amazed” filled the air. Nolan’s arms encircled my waist, drawing me impossibly closer. As the lyrics “it just keeps gettin' better” floated around us, his lips found mine.
The world outside our embrace ceased to exist. The kiss was a revelation, tender yet passionate, familiar yet thrillingly new. It spoke of unspoken feelings, of a connection deeper than either of us had expected. My fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring myself in this moment that felt both surreal and more genuine than anything I’d experienced before.
As we slowly parted, I savored the lingering warmth of his lips. Our eyes met, and in Nolan’s gaze, I saw my own emotions reflected: wonder, joy, and a hint of exhilarating trepidation. The air between us was thick with unspoken promises and possibilities.
In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that this was real. We had crossed a line, and there was no going back. It was terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
Nolan leaned next to my ear and said, “You look like you might want to get some fresh air.”
I smiled and leaned closer. “There you go again, reading my mind.”
Hand in hand, Nolan and I strolled along the riverbank, the Nashville night enveloping us in its warm embrace. The city lights danced on the water’s surface, creating a magical ambiance that matched the butterflies in my stomach. As much as I was enjoying it, as midnight approached, I was getting tired.
“Ready to head back?” I asked, stifling a yawn.
Nolan nodded. “Now, you are readingmymind.”
After the taxi ride back to the Hutton Hotel, we took the elevator up to the suite and tiptoed inside, trying our best to channel our inner ninjas. But as we rounded the corner into the living area, all thoughts of stealth evaporated.
There, on the couch, were my parents.
Naked as the day they were born.
Dad’s pale posterior shone in all its glory, a fleshy beacon we never asked to see. His black socks, still clinging defiantly to his feet, added a touch of absurd formality to the scene—as if his bare bottom was attending a black-tie event. Meanwhile, Mom’s legs shot skyward like twin flagpoles, saluting this monument to middle-aged indiscretion.
