18. Wesley
Wesley
H ow do you make a dive bar better? It’s hard to improve the tried-and-true formula.
Christmas lights strung up in the rafters.
Floor sticky with biohazardous liquid that could probably mutate and start a zombie apocalypse.
Greasy food that makes your mouth water while you forget that heartburn exists.
There’s one way I know for sure. You give Avery Sloane a guitar and put her on whatever rickety stage is available and brace yourself. The five patrons scattered across the bar and wobbly wooden tables are about to have the best night of their lives, and they don’t even know it.
Before we make it onto the stage, Avery and I eat, because as she reminded me, I dragged her out here in the middle of nowhere for food and she can’t perform on an empty stomach.
I sit across from her, as she swirls her fries in ketchup, biting my tongue.
I want to explain everything. But I’m forcing myself to wait.
I’ve got it in my head that if we just get up on stage and sing together, she’ll remember how well we work, increasing the chance that she’ll listen and we can move on.
I just want to go back before I ran into Maddie. Fuck, before I ever met her at all and make sure we never got to this point.
Avery moans, leaning back against her seat, her plate scraped clean. “Fuck. This food alone might have been worth putting up with you for the night.”
A waifish waitress with a stained white apron around her waist walks over to us. “Can I get you anything else? Chef is heading out soon so it will just be drinks here on out.”
“Two Shirley Temples.”
“Dirty?” she asks.
“Nah, I’m sober. And someone’s got to make sure she gets home safe.” I haven’t had a drop since the party.
“Good man.” The waitress nods and heads to the bar, leaning over the counter to pass along our order.
“You didn’t drink at the party the other day either. I just thought you weren’t feeling it,” Avery says.
“I never really liked to before. It’s just an easy solution, even though it never lasts. My therapist has really encouraged me to evaluate my relationship with alcohol. Identifying why I reach for it, when—that type of thing.”
That morning after, I called Dr. Davis and talked for two hours.
About taking one day at a time and going from meeting once a week to twice to ensure I have the support I need.
Most of all, we had a serious talk about how though my behaviors didn’t align with alcoholism.
I was abusing alcohol as a coping mechanism for anxiety I didn’t know I had.
I was so sure what she called cycles of rumination and aches, accompanied by rapid heart rate, were what everyone felt.
Naming the feelings has helped me find some sense of control. Knowing there are patterns to look out for and triggers to avoid gives me some power, when in the past I’ve stayed braced for impact, not understanding the signs. Not saying it will be easy, but it’s a start that I’m proud of.
Avery bites down on her bottom lip as if stopping herself from asking more.
“Go ahead. If you want to know, I want to tell you.”
“I never got why you started. It was like one moment you never touched a drop and then it was so casual for you.” Her eyes say the rest, the green taking over her hazel eyes the way it does when her emotions are close to the surface. Was that when things changed? What was I missing?
“Because it was a quick fix for numbing whatever I didn’t want to feel in the moment instead of working through those emotions.
And it’s not just that. I want to remember this time.
I want to be present and here with you without any of it being clouded.
Now, instead, I’ve been reaching for my guitar or headphones like we used to. ”
Avery’s brows dip and she opens her mouth. “Wes, I don’t—”
My pulse races. This is it. The moment she tells me she doesn’t want me here at all. Fuck. I should have waited.
Red plastic cups with faded logos thud in front of us, cherries bobbing on the surface. “Two Shirleys for you.”
I fish a hundred-dollar bill from my pocket and hand it over. “I think this will settle everything up. Keep the change.”
She beams as she walks away.
Avery takes a sip, her eyes fluttering closed. Her lips curl into a soft smile, shoulders relaxing on a sigh. A single tear rolls down her cheek, carrying flecks of dark makeup down her face.
She sniffs, sitting up and wiping the back of her hand against her watering eyes. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s happening. It’s just the last time I had one of these…” She swallows and blinks, trying to reign in her emotions.
“I remember,” I say, for whatever it’s worth. “It was a good night, wasn’t it?”
That shitty bar in Caper with Mom and Hudson. And we were bursting with the type of hope that cut like the first ray of sunlight after a storm. The sweetness coated our tongues, but we sucked it down, thinking we could always come back for more.
Now it tastes artificial. A nearly perfect replica of something we’ll never have back.
“Can we just play? Like we promised Dad we would back then. Together.” Her voice is thick with the tears she’s holding back.
“Let’s not keep him waiting any longer.”
Avery sits on a stool near the back of the stage tuning the ancient maple Fender, cocking her head with her hair cascading down her shoulders as she delicately plucks the strings then turns the tuning pegs.
If only it were that easy with us. Picking at a string and knowing what direction we need to go to get us back in tune.
In some ways, it feels exactly like what we’re doing, but my hands are clumsy, like they used to be when I first picked up a guitar and it would take me an hour to tune before I could start practicing.
Sometimes I’d get frustrated and start before it was perfect, leaving whatever song I was playing sounding sour.
“I think I’m ready to go.”
“I’ve got the mics set,” I say, letting go of the stand I’ve been adjusting as an excuse to linger nearby as she works.
“What are we singing?”
“I’m not picky.” My lips tug into a smirk. “I know all your songs are about me.”
“You sure about that?” A challenge but not a denial.
“I’m talking about those songs you hate. The ones people told you to write to line their pockets. But everything else? Yeah, I’m sure. Don’t worry. There’s a little bit of you in everything I write. It’s enviable. Couldn’t stop it if I tried.”
“You know every song?”
“By heart.” The same way I know you.
“Well, then let’s hope you keep up.” She smirks, stepping toward the side to tilt her mic into position. She doesn’t even introduce us, just starts picking at the strings.
“ Loving me’s a fool’s errand. I’ve got this heart I’m bad at sharin’. ” The words sit low, resonating in her chest with a tone reminiscent of old country and blue grass.
I pick up the next line easily. “ You say you’re hard to love, but I think love’s just hard on you. ”
Her eyes narrow as I change the lyrics, so it sounds like I’m singing to her and not just with her. Using her own words as a rebuttal against her fears.
“ I ain’t a dog, but I do bite. ” She leans toward me, her teeth clamping down with a click on the last word.
“ Then I’ll say I love you right to your face with my blood fresh on your teeth. ”
And we keep going. Her telling me she’s hard to love as I remind her that every reason she thinks she’s unlovable is what I love most about her.
Singing together isn’t as simple as getting the notes right. It’s about listening, adjusting, understanding the nuances of your partner’s voice and doing what you can to highlight it. And when someone does the same for you, it makes you feel heard, understood.
There’s a trust that comes from it. Knowing that someone will strengthen you where you’re weakest.
“ I am my father’s daughter. These feet of mine love to wander.
” She circles me, abandoning her mic, but her voice rings true throughout the bar.
“ Don’t go thinkin’ now that you’ve caught my eye.
That I’ll stick around and be your wife, ” she sings, strumming hard before tapping out a rhythm on the body of the guitar, the steady bump bump of a heart.
I counter, “ Please stick around and be my wife. ”
The air is heavy like after a summer rain, weighing down the lungs of all those who breathe in. Instead of moisture, it’s the truth that lingers between us, leaving us panting.
In a blur, she’s swinging the borrowed guitar off her back. That’s it I think. One song and now she’s done.
But then she’s there in front of me. No, not just in front of me. Touching me. Hands on my face. Lips hovering painfully close to mine.
“You changed the lyrics,” she says.
“I didn’t know how else to make sure I had a chance to say what I needed to.” I swallow hard, studying her face. The heavy lidded eyes, full lips, and knitted brows that invite me in. “Are you mad?”
“What do you think?” She shifts closer, fingers sinking into the fabric of my shirt.
I shake my head. “I can’t tell any more. What are you thinking in that brilliant mind of yours?”
“That I might die if you don’t kiss me, Gaflin.” Our breaths mingle in the millimeters between us.
My last name, her lips. Name a better combination.
Oh, wait. I know one.
My mouth against hers.
Hand pressing against the base of my skull as our mouths meet, fingers clutching at my mess of hair.
Soft as I remember, but more sure. Knowing what she wants, what she deserves, and fitting her lips against mine. Fingers drag down my neck, pausing at the point where my pulse is thrumming wildly. My hands find her hips, pulling her flush against me.
This is what I want.
What I need.
This.
Us.
Over and over again until the world has turned to dust.
I pull away, just long enough to fill my aching lungs. There’s a sound bursting around us? Cheers. Clapping. It doesn’t matter, I can't make out anything other than the way my body screams more.