28
LUKE
I daydream about Eleanor quite a bit, but I have to admit, I dream about her a whole lot more often since we’ve started sleeping together. How can a man not when he’s got the perfect woman for a girlfriend?
Today’s fantasy is taking her on a road trip. Not in my car, in my dad’s old pickup. It’s just been sitting in the driveway at the house, unattended to. It probably needs a lot of maintenance at this point, but it would be worth it. I’m imagining hours on the open road with Eleanor, playing all the greatest hits on the radio, enjoying the tranquil scenery. We could go all the way out to the Grand Canyon if she could hack it that long. Seventeen hours ain’t but a two day’s drive if we’re being generous.
And boy, I’d like to be generous. Hit all the stops in between here and there. Tourist traps and natural wonders. Take it slow and easy.
We could even go camping. I’ve never asked Eleanor if she’s the camping type, and I’d hazard a guess, but she is a constant surprise.
That’s where my fantasy deviates to something more untoward and much more distracting. Having Eleanor under the stars while camping. Fuck .
That’s heaven.
Of course, she’ll probably want to bring the dog. That will put a cramp in my style, but I’ll make do.
“Wyatt.”
I snap out of my fantasy and find myself face to face with Jen, the owner of the venue where I’m working. From below the brim of her baseball cap, she eyes me with a raised brow. “You good?”
I push off the stack of amps I’ve been leaning on. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine.”
“You were in la-la land for a bit there,” she says, swirling her hand in the air a little too close to my face.
“Naw. Me? La-la land?” I pshaw and wave my hand before straightening my suspenders.
Jen grabs one of the suspenders and snaps it against my chest. “Haven’t seen you in these in a while.”
I don’t tend to wear them a lot after I had some out-of-towners claim that I was trying to bring hipster back—as if it ever left Austin. Usually, I can’t be swayed by those who don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about. But the thought of being compared to memes of dudes with handlebar mustaches, bowler hats, and a “Shhh . . .” tattoo on their finger was enough to scare me out of wearing suspenders. There is one reason to break them out again, though.
“Uh, yeah, my girlfriend thinks they’re cute,” I say, again straightening out the suspenders since Jen so unceremoniously put them out of place.
“Oooo,” she cajoles. “Your girlfriend . Did you hear that, Whit?”
Jen’s wife perks her head up from behind the soundboard, light glinting off her septum piercing. “What?”
“Wyatt’s got a girlfriend.” Jen reaches up and ruffles my hair.
“Careful!” I exclaim, ducking away from her. Jen and I go way back. She caught me sneaking into her bar when I was nineteen to see an impromptu Roky Erickson gig. She’s one of the only people who won’t lose a hand for messing up my hair.
Jen grins, putting her hands on her hips. “No wonder you’re all starry-eyed. You’re in love.”
“Not—ha! No, not—” My face is getting hot.
“Wyatt’s in love!” Whit calls, cupping her hands around her face.
The few guys I have on this job all start snickering. They’ve been privy to my lovesickness for a while now and it always tickles them when people point it out.
“Not in love. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Jen snaps at Randy who is in the middle of coiling an unused cord. “Randy?”
Randy smiles. “Very much in love.”
“Fuck off, Randy,” I grumble.
Jen and Whit’s bar is an easy venue. Unfussy. Bar, folding tables and chairs, a stage. Nothing much, but homey as hell. Jen and Whit are always working on something, which sometimes does more harm than good. Gotta be careful about zoning out, or else Whit futzes too much with the balance on the soundboard, and Jen gets overly chatty with the artists. Tonight is an old country stalwart on the scene who gets a little ornery if you mess with his preshow routine of drinking malt whiskey at the bar while reading from the same book of Edna St. Vincent Millay poems that he’s had since the ‘80s.
Artists, man.
“Bring her tonight,” Jen says with a forceful shake of my arm.
“Oh, she’s all the way in the burbs, I don’t think she’ll want to—”
“We have to give her the fourth degree!” Jen says.
“Third. The third degree,” Whit corrects.
I scoff. “There will be zero degrees tonight, but thank you both for making it such a welcoming environment for any potential ladies in my life.”
Jen and Whit are both silent, before exchanging a look. The look that means they’re communicating telepathically. Dammit.
“You’re protective,” Jen says.
“And?”
“You’re never protective,” Whit says. “In fact, you never have girlfriends, you only have—”
“ Girls .”
“You two are killing me,” I say and run a hand through my hair, hoping it resettles the damage Jen has done. “I’ve gotta work.”
They giggle with each other. I ignore the whispering and head over to the door crew to make sure everything is handled since Jen and Whit’s venue, The Maverick, can get a little rowdy with a weak door crew.
If I keep busy, I won’t be distracted. I won’t get thrown off course. I won’t get lost in “la-la land” as Jen puts it.
Except for the second I’m done with the door crew, a text comes through from Eleanor and I’m down so bad that I can’t ignore it.
And fuck, it’s a photo. I’m dead, done for, toast.
It’s Eleanor sitting out in a field, the afternoon sun shining down on her, with a dog a little too big for her lap trying his best to make a spot for himself. His tongue is blurry, midlick.
The text that follows is:
I think I’m in love.
Same, Nor. Same.
I text back as quickly as I can, so as not to be caught.
So, what you’re saying is that he’s replacing me tonight?
Eleanor texts back fast.
If all goes to plan!
I grab my heart as if I’ve been stabbed. It’s a joke, but I’m a bit jealous of a dog edging me out in Eleanor’s heart.
Another text follows.
I’ll ask him if we can make room. Bring treats.
I smile to myself and I’m about to text back, “Can do,” when hands wrap around both of my biceps. I am framed by Whit and Jen.
“Who are you texting?”
I try to click off the screen. Too little too late. Whit wrestles the phone from my hand and announces, “ Eleanor! ”
Jen bats at my arm. “See! I knew you were in la-la land.”
“I was just texting her to let her know—”
Whit holds up my phone and shows off the photo. “Oh my god, she’s gorgeous. Is this her dog?”
“Not yet,” I say carefully.
“Text her to come tonight!” Jen says.
“No, y’all, please don’t—”
Whit flips the phone back around and squints her eyes. “Hold him in place. I’m taking a photo so she can see the suspenders.”
“Seriously! Do not—”
Jen’s hands tighten on my arms. “Got him. Take it before he starts flopping like a fish.”
I roll my eyes. “This is the worst.”
“Got it! And send.”
I cover my face. “Augh!”
“You look adorably resigned,” Whit says and tosses the phone back to me.
I fumble it, but keep it from dropping. “You guys are going to kill me.” I glance at the screen. “Oh god, I look aw—”
“Adorable!” Jen interrupts, patting my arm. “And she’ll think as much, too.”
I don’t want to be adorable. I want to be handsome. Sexy. Irresistible. Not adorable. Whit has followed the photo up with a text.
Come to the Maverick tonight.
No question. No suggestion. A demand.
The three dots appear. Then disappear. Appear again. Then—
“She’s killing me,” Jen groans.
I huff. “Tell me about it.”
Finally, her message pops up.
Is that what you’re wearing? Sign me up.
She follows it up with a string of emojis, including the salute and the hot one with its tongue out.
“That seems like a yes to me,” Jen says with a waggle of her eyebrows.
I shove my phone back into my pocket and hold up my hands, announcing to the bar, “Can we get back to work?”
“Says the guy who has a one-way ticket to la-la land,” Whit mutters.
They both laugh.
Jen claps me on the back. “Can’t hide her from us forever, Wyatt.”
I suddenly feel like I’ve swallowed a bunch of rocks. Any mention of hiding or secrets has me on red alert these days. The guilt hasn’t disappeared. It mounts the closer Eleanor and I become.
Our relationship has been built entirely on a lie. A little white one of my telling.
And this kind of thinking, this isn’t la-la land.
This is nightmare fuel.
One last text comes through.
Were the suspenders for me?
My response is quick and unflinching.
All for you, baby.
Maybe if I can make her believe it, the day she knows the truth she’ll understand I’ve never done anything to hurt her.