Sixteen
The dance floor was packed when London’s crew arrived at the Timber Taproom.
Midnight Beasts had the place vibrating—its lead singer was roaring a rendition of Are You Gonna Be My Girl while the bass guitarist set an ominous beat.
London tugged at the sleeves on her flannel, realizing it could’ve really used time with an iron.
Locals’ night at Timber was always on Wednesdays, the unofficial mid-week rest day for those who lived there. Four-day weekends were for tourists. But Wednesdays were for those who shoveled the sidewalks and fixed the pipes and poured the beers.
London and Laurie squeezed past the high-top tables in the back to the bar, where two oversized flat screens broadcast fifty tap choices and another three dozen in bottles and cans.
Laurie adjusted her glasses and squinted up at the monitors. “You think they want imported or local?”
“I think we get a pitcher of Stella and not ask for opinions,” London said. “Last thing we need is Cindy starting a ten-minute TED talk about hops.”
“Copy that.” Laurie nodded solemnly. “I’m too tired for soliloquies.”
They shuffled forward another step as the line cleared, and the efficient bartender had a pitcher filled, foam drained, and a top off in no time. “Thanks Karla.” London tapped her credit card on the reader and grabbed the glasses.
“Victory beer!” Laurie announced as she sat the topped-up pitcher on the table and slid into the booth.
“Victory beer!” Cindy echoed, hand already on a pint glass. Her ponytail was askew, leaking out of the back of a well-worn trucker hat.
Cheryl feigned writing on her hand with her finger and began narrating their day. “Let’s review. We moved two couches, six club chairs, a monstrous ottoman . . . And that huge dining room table.”
“That table tried to kill me,” Cindy took a long sip of the light blonde beer. “Damn. That’s good. Everything’s good when you’re exhausted.”
“Yeah, it’s gorgeous, but holy crap—it must weigh 500 pounds. How did Harper manage that thing?” Cheryl asked as London slid a full glass her way.
London shrugged. “No idea. I didn’t even know she was making a new table until I saw it. Even then, I didn’t know what it was for.”
Memo to self. Ask questions.
With glasses full, Laurie lifted hers, “To friends in low places with high expectations.”
“To the return of the Colchuck,” Cheryl said.
“To zero broken toes and minimal bruising,” Cindy added, raising her glass higher than the rest. “And to overcoming the odds.”
“To overcoming the odds,” London agreed, knowing the person who’d helped her overcome those odds wasn’t there.
Glasses clinked and beers were downed and exhales were earned.
“Seriously, though, the place looks incredible,” Laurie said. “Like nothing ever happened. You two pulled off a miracle, with a day to spare.”
“It’s true,” Cindy added. “I see Harper all over that place. Does she sleep?”
London pretended to be there—pretended to be present—with her friends, celebrating the miracle.
And it truly was a miracle. But the loop that played in her head was a black and white version of the afternoon before, when she’d stood in the snow—freezing and flabbergasted—and she learned a different version of the past than she’d been telling herself for too long.
It was like one of those reel-to-reel projectors was sending it through her memory, the skips and jumps and edges of the film and all.
On stage, Midnight Beasts wrapped a song to a round of applause.
“Alright Timber,” the lead singer said, dabbing at her forehead with a bandanna. “Let’s bring it down a notch.”
The crowd quieted as the opening mandolin notes of a new song floated through the bar.
Going to California.
A few couples began to two-step to the classic Led Zeppelin cover, creating a circular path out of what had just been disorganized chaos. Cindy was talking about getting another pitcher, while Cheryl shook her head—no.
London was still watching that old black and white movie in her mind as Cindy and Cheryl’s yin and yang played out before her.
Laurie had excused herself to the bathroom.
They had one more day left for finishing touches, and guests would begin arriving Friday.
London hated how she’d left things with Harper.
What had London done to deserve to be missed, she wondered. She’d made assumptions. She’d emotionally abandoned her wife without realizing it. She’d gone quiet when Harper pleaded with her to talk. She’d moved her life—and her mother—to Seattle to escape Harper’s ghost.
As she replayed their conversation for the hundredth time, movement near the stage caught her eye. Harper was standing with Jorge laughing, her head tossed back in a burst of easy joy, one hand in the pocket of that dumb canvas jacket.
Of course she was here.
London watched, debating before setting her beer on the table.
Cindy followed her gaze. “Oh,” she said. “Well, this should be interesting.”
Without a word, London slid out of the booth and headed for the edge of the stage, touching a shoulder here, mouthing pardon me, there, until she reached Harper.
With her hand out, London smiled. She gestured with her head to the dance floor. “They’re playing our song.”
Never mind that Going to California wasn’t their song. If anything, it was the opposite.
Harper stared at her hand for a moment before taking it. It was rough, from weeks of work, and soft, just like always. London felt it instantly. A current she'd forgotten was still live.
Below the stage lights, the crowd circled as the band approached the chorus.
London led them to the dance floor. Chatter faded into the background, music swelled.
Harper’s hand settled on the small of her back as it always did, and London silently begged her legs to cooperate.
Quick-quick, slow, slow. Their bodies moved in a quiet, unified rhythm.
Harper fit against her like she was made to—her body still remembered the blueprint.
When London found Harper’s eyes, she was already looking at her.
“Hi,” Harper said.
“Hi.”
Quick-quick, slow, slow.
London’s heart was in her throat, and Harper’s breath warmed her neck as she moved closer. The song was ending, too soon. As the final notes faded, London held her longer than the music required before Cindy interrupted from the table.
“Hey lovers,” she called. “Either get a room or come drink.”
“I see Cindy is in full Cat 5 mode.” Harper dragged London toward the table.
London bit back a groan.
She needed another song.
It was too late. When Harper let go, London was still thinking about how their bodies fit together so naturally.
# # #
Cindy had bent herself over the table, hands wide, fingers spread. “Well?” she started. “Are we celebrating the inn being finished or the reunion tour?”
Harper slid into the booth beside Cheryl and reached for a glass. “Relax. It was just a dance.”
“That was not just a dance,” Cindy pressed her fingers to her lips and blew a series of air kisses toward them.
Harper turned toward Cheryl. “How do you deal with her?”
“I drink,” Cheryl said, and lifted a nearly empty glass to her lips.
“That’s not true,” Cindy defended. “We both do. Marriage is hard.”
If London were writing a memoir, its title could definitely be: Marriage is hard.
While Harper reacquainted herself with London’s friends, she stood, pretending to be busy with her phone—inn responsibilities, she’d say if anyone asked.
In reality, it was too much, too soon. Too much truth wrapped in jokes.
Too much of her old life appearing—when her friends would visit, stay the weekend, and they’d all roam around town without a care and wake up to monster hangovers.
They were all fifty or approaching it. Drinking too much and giving each other a hard time had certainly gone out of style. Right?
“Oh good,” Laurie said when she returned from the bathroom. “We’re doing this tonight.”
Without waiting for a response, she pivoted and turned toward the bar. London slipped behind her.
“Help,” she muttered when they were out of earshot. “There is no way this ends well. You know Cindy’s going to pick at this like a raccoon in a trash can.”
Laurie leaned a hip on the bar, sticky with an evening’s worth of spilled beer. “Probably.”
“So, you’ll help?”
“Sometimes it’s good to let someone else pick at the scab.”
“No, it’s not!”
“It can be,” Laurie nodded toward the booth in the back, where Harper was laughing and Cindy was soliloquizing. “She’s having fun. After working her ass off for three weeks. For you. Let it happen, babe.”
London followed the nod. Harper was leaning back in the booth, one arm draped over the backrest, listening to Cindy with the patient amusement that used to make London fall in love with her a little more every day.
“We talked,” London said as the bartender set a new pitcher between them. “I asked her what happened.”
“Shut the front door.”
“Yeah.”
“You womaned up!” Laurie slid her card across the bar.
London huffed out a weak laugh. “We didn’t finish. Sebastian interrupted with one of his false emergencies.”
“That tracks,” Laurie said. “And?”
“Basically . . . I fucked up.”
“The conversation?”
“No.” London shook her head. “Though I had my moments. But no. I fucked up our marriage.”
Laurie listened to her explain while the band played Dreams, the bass line reverberating through the room while the lead singer stretched the melody just enough to make the crowd sway.
“Harper didn’t sleep with Bryce,” London said. “He was just a friend. Someone she could talk to.”
Laurie leaned closer, so London didn’t have to yell, but didn’t interrupt.
“She was lonely,” she added. “And I didn’t even notice.”
Around them, noise swelled. The bartender was dictating an order to the kitchen. A group beside them chanted “shot, shot, shot” as one of them tossed back something strong. The band shifted into a slower song. Was that Into the Mystic?
London stared into the pitcher between them.
“When my dad died, I disappeared,” she said. “I was grieving. Harper said I shut her out. She tried to talk to me. Over and over, and I—” London lifted a shoulder. “I couldn’t hear her.”
“I’m so sorry. And I’m so proud of you for asking. Come here.” Laurie stepped closer and wrapped her arms around London’s body.
London let herself be pulled into comfort and blinked back the tears that wanted to break the dam. She wouldn’t let the dam break. Not here.
“I’m glad you talked to her,” Laurie said. “This is important information. Because now you have the whole story. You can decide what makes sense to do next.”
“What is there to do next?” London pulled back, scrubbing a hand over her face. “I promised her a divorce in return for rebuilding the inn. She did her part.”
“Does she want the divorce?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want the divorce?”
London stared toward the booth where Harper was still joking with her friends. “Also . . . don’t know.”
“Well, there’s your pattern, my sweet, lovely, clueless, dear friend. Don’t you think you should find out? People reimagine marriages all the time.”
“Said by someone who’s never been married.”
“Objection,” Laurie said immediately. “Irrelevant.”
Despite herself, London laughed.
“I am still an observant human with a good point.” Laurie grabbed the pitcher. “Come on, let’s get back before this beer’s hot and Harper realizes we’ve been talking about her.”
# # #
Back at their booth, the energy was waning.
Cheryl was mid-yawn when the band shifted songs again.
Mellow this time, the lead singer leaned into the microphone.
“As the song goes, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here,” she said.
“So partner up, dance it out, and get your asses outta here. It’s Christmas in a few days—let’s give ‘em one to remember.”
Christmas in a few days.
They’d made it.
London watched as her friends talked about who was going where, whose uncle was the craziest. Who was hosting Christmas Eve, who still had presents left to wrap. She watched as Harper nodded along politely. Noticed she didn’t talk about her own plans.
“We should probably dance at least once,” Cindy proclaimed. “Come on wife, let’s go out on a high note.”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“I’ll dance with you,” Laurie offered.
That did the trick. Cheryl slid out of the booth, already shaking her head. “Fine I’ll go. I’ll go. But then, I need to sleep. We’re up way past my bedtime. Contrary to what this song implies, it’s not the nineties anymore.”
“Okay, so I’ll supervise,” Laurie said.
London gave her a look—don’t leave me. Laurie caught it, mouthed, find out, and followed Cindy and Cheryl to the dance floor, settling on the edge of the swaying crowd.
Alone with Harper was a new kind of unfamiliar.
Not exactly peaceful.
Not exactly stressful.
A middle ground, where history and possibility collided. Where what was done was known and what could be was completely unclear.
The ice needed to be broken.
Gently.
London turned a warm beer in slow circles on the table. “You don’t have to drive back tonight,” she said, eyes locked on the rim of her glass. “It’s late. The roads will be slick.”
“Yeah.” Harper watched the crowd move together in the dim light near the stage.
“You could stay in the back room. If you want.”
Harper sat with the offer.
London spun her glass. Not knowing what Harper was thinking was worse than any answer she could give.
The song ended and the crowd started to trickle out, grabbing coats, patting backs, giving hugs. Merry Christmases and happy holidays and love you, mans fought for space in the shrinking available time in the bar.
And then, quietly. From their booth.
“Okay.”
London looked up. Harper had flipped the collar on her coat up around her neck. Those green-blue eyes glowed in the soft light. Her edges had been sanded, slightly.
“I have a bag in the truck. I’ll take the back room,” she said. “Thanks.”