Chapter 3
Chapter Three
“How’s your dad’s retirement party planning going?” Quinn links her arm with mine as we walk toward The Limelight. The low thump of music from inside the bar blends with the steady creak of the door swinging on its hinges.
“I finally found a caterer Darienne approved of.” I swallow the fluttery tickle in my chest. I’ve been working hard to make Dad’s night perfect. So what if my stepmother has made collaborating more like a game of tug of war. So what if Russel will be there. I can suck it up for Dad.
“Finally. Why’s she so picky?” Quinn asks as we queue up at the back of the line. The two couples in front of us laugh at something one of the girls says.
“Money, mostly.”
“And yet she seems to have no trouble staying in five star hotels and redecorating their house.”
“Nothing wrong with enjoying retirement,” I reply.
Quinn lifts a brow, but I don’t take the bait. “Found yourself a date yet?” she asks .
I shake my head. “I’ll probably be running around like a madwoman. Maybe it’s better I go alone.”
“And miss out on an opportunity to make Russel suffer?” She gazes at the events calendar and the pub’s menu tacked to the wall next to us.
It’s not a horrible idea. Russel has surely caused me enough suffering. “I’m running out of candidates.”
She returns her attention to me, the tip of her tongue pressed to the corner of her mouth the way she does when she’s thinking. “Steve adores you. Have you asked him?”
Steve is a fellow flight attendant and friend. “He just started seeing someone.”
“Russ doesn’t have to know that.”
“But by July twenty-first, he might,” I say. “And I don’t want to cause any weirdness between him and Penelope.”
“What about Jordan?”
“You know how he is in the summer. Too busy.”
Quinn huffs. “He could put aside his kiteboarding adventures for one day.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Want me to text him?” She arches her eyebrows and crosses her arms like the determined firecracker she is.
“I’ll do it later.”
The couple in front of us pays and disappears inside The Limelight. We’re blasted with the noisy hubbub and the scents of grilling food and someone’s perfume before the door squeaks shut.
We flash our IDs to the hostess, then I tap my card on her machine.
“Enjoy the show,” the cashier says with a smile.
Quinn and I thank her and step inside the bar.
It’s dimly lit and cozy, with booths lining the left wall and circular high-top tables with stools in the center, facing a small dance floor where people are already gathering.
Behind it, on the stage, a woman with long dark hair and two guys are setting up.
To the right, the bar lines the back wall and is currently three rows deep with people while two bartenders are a blur pouring drinks and taking orders.
“Quite the happenin’ spot!” Quinn half-shouts over the din, her eyes bright.
I steer her toward the bar. Though The Limelight has been here for decades, because Dad and I moved to Boise when I was twelve, I never set foot inside it until last fall, when Annaleise brought me.
An acoustic guitar chord strummed from the stage draws cheers and applause from the small crowd.
Quinn grabs my hand and tugs me toward the bar. Warm bodies and loud conversations press in on all sides, but it’s festive and welcoming, sending a buzz of anticipation coursing through my body. Finally, we blast through to the bar where Quinn orders us each a shot and a beer.
“To your freedom!” Quinn cheers.
Laughing, I clink glasses and we both down our shots.
The tequila burns like rusted fire all the way down to the pit of my stomach, but the hit of sour from my lime wedge softens it perfectly.
Grabbing our beers, we weave back through the crowd, bumping and jostling past so many bodies it feels like we’ll never reach the stage.
The temperature has jumped at least another ten degrees, or maybe it’s the heat from the lights pointed on the stage.
I sip my beer while the opening band finishes tuning up.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” the woman on stage says into the microphone while the drummer behind her adjusts his seat.
Next to her stands another guitarist, a slim guy with a buzz cut and a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm.
Set up behind them are several other instruments: a violin, a banjo, and a set of keyboards.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar face. I blink, willing this to be some trick of the light. But it’s Russel, laughing in a small group of people I don’t recognize. “Shit.”
Quinn frowns, then zeroes in on Russ and huffs a loud groan. “Seriously? What’s he doing here?”
I shrink a half step back, so Quinn will shield me if Russel happens to look this way. Though he’d recognize her and it wouldn’t take him long to figure out that of course I’m here too.
“Ignore him, okay?” Quinn says, turning toward me and sipping her beer.
“I won’t let him get anywhere near you.” She’s tall and lanky and though warm and genuine, underestimating her is a bad idea.
At a bar in Tokyo last winter, she laid this jerk who groped my ass flat on his back in about three seconds.
The band starts playing, blasting the space with a bright, edgy melody, their voices big and true. I let the music wash over me, giving in to the way it blocks everything out.
Quinn is right. I don’t have to talk to Russel if I don’t want to. And I don’t.
What the hell is he even doing here? We sold our condo in Seattle last fall and as far as I know, he’s with his side chick in San Diego, though he insists he’s living in Boise. Finn River is my territory. He could have gone anywhere else tonight. Why can’t he leave me in peace?
My jackass neighbor’s cocky grin flashes through my thoughts. Ugh. It’s like the universe is trying to fuck with me, because the only time I’ve experienced true peace since I moved here is when Linden is on shift, or when I’m floating in the lake beneath a clear night sky.
I sip my beer and close my eyes, swaying to the beat. Tonight, I’ll just have to escape to the music.
By the time the opening band finishes their set, I’m in a pleasant alcohol-induced bubble. My limbs are loose and the low lighting makes me feel invisible as I dance and jump around. I haven’t forgotten about Russel but I’ve been able to push him to the fringes of my mind.
Quinn and I beeline for the bathroom, but we’re too late to get ahead of the line, which snakes along the right wall so the men coming and going from their restroom have space to pass. At the end of the hall is a black door labeled STAGE.
“I’ll get us waters and meet you back here,” Quinn yells over the pumped-in music they’re playing while Boxcar Doves sets up.
I give her a thumbs up as she spins away and disappears into the crowd. The dark hallway is lined with playbills and advertisements several layers deep, the staples denting the paper.
The two women in front of me are laughing about something. One has an athletic build, her brown hair pulled into a high ponytail, and the other is more slight, wearing a low-cut green velvet top. “Fucking stop or I’m gonna pee my pants,” Green Velvet says, crossing her legs together.
I look away just as a guy comes out of the STAGE door. He’s broad shouldered, with thick dark hair. Because of the dim lighting, it takes me a moment to realize it’s Linden.
He’s dressed in faded Levi’s and one of his ridiculous t-shirts. This one is lime green with a big yellow campfire in the middle flanked by trees and “NATURE FIRES ME UP” in bold letters across the top.
I must let my eyes linger too long, because he gives me an amused smirk as he passes, leaving a woodsy, manly scent in his wake.
Is it his? I’ve been up close to him only a handful of times, but I don’t remember getting a whiff of something worth remembering.
Mostly he smells of sawdust, sweat, or barbecued meat.
Athletic Girl has turned to watch Linden go, her big brown eyes tense with longing. “Damn is it hot in here?” she says under her breath .
“I heard he’s single—”Green Velvet catches me looking and gives me an icy glare before turning back to her friend.
I cross my arms and huff a stray hair from my hot face. Just my luck. Not only is my ex here, but my jackass neighbor is too—with his fan club in tow?
What was Linden doing on stage?
Quinn slides in next to me and offers a plastic cup of water. “Jeez, you’ve barely moved. The band’s about to start.”
I gulp half my water but it does nothing to quench the prickly heat rising up my chest.
Finally, the line moves up, and I’ve just polished off my water when it’s our turn.
The bathroom is dimly lit and loud thanks to the stage being just on the other side of the wall.
When I step out of my stall to wash my hands, the two women who were in front of me earlier are crowded into the far corner, where it’s darkest. Green Velvet bends forward, then they quickly switch places, and I get a flash of the compact open on the counter, dusted with white powder.
I’m no prude or anything, but I’m still surprised to see these women are so bold. I refocus on washing my hands, then hurry out of the bathroom, where Quinn is waiting by the entryway back into the bar.
She links her arm with mine and we half jump, half shimmy our way back to the center of the dance floor.
Everyone is moving, bodies pressed close.
The music is even louder, and faster than the opening band’s, and I quickly lose myself in the sea of gyrating bodies.
Waving my hands in the air, I spin around, welcoming the way the wall of sound blasts my thoughts and lights up my skin.
I’m finally free of the wrecking ball that was my divorce.
Free to finally heal my shattered heart. Free to move on.
I wish it felt fantastic. Liberating. While there’s relief that the awful divorce process has ended, I mostly feel…empty.