13
Okay, just like last time.
I try to calm myself. But I’m a mess.
“Can we get a few posed photos of the two of you now?” She says again. Adam and I have been standing a few people apart on the small stage.
Of course we got here and everything was wrong. The ribbon for the ribbon cutting. The wording on the signs. I even caught a reporter say Ball Construction instead of Bell.
We are used to small-town communities but this event coordinator and her gaggle of half-asleep journalists is making all of small town middle America look bad. Which has made me even more agitated, since Canton Cards International already gets enough flack for being based out of the thriving metropolis that is Tulsa, Oklahoma.
“Sure!” I tell the photographer, willing my pulse to just cool it.
I came slightly unhinged a little bit ago, after an hour of speed-fixing the laundry list of things that were wrong around the shopping center and store. Which is of course when my friend found me, having a fight with a three ring binder that had gotten deeply personal. He snorted—the you’re such a dork kind of snort—and I gawked. He barged in on me, sweating and teary eyed, yelling at office supplies, right after he’d apparently had a full shower, he was so sparkly fresh. He also changed into a suit.
A! Suit!
Which he wore without a tie, top buttons of his shirt open. It screamed Hot Construction Industry CEO.
I almost stood up and screamed “Hot Construction Industry CEO!”
He just mumbled it was time for the ribbon cutting. I put on my own suit jacket, smoothed my skirt and followed him to the sectioned off parking lot. We went through the motions seamlessly. A few rehearsed words from each of us and it was over.
But now they want a photo of us.
“Let’s do it!” I add, way too cheery.
Adam meets me in the middle in front of the podium and I repeat my big-scissors-between-us-pose.
“Little closer together, please.” The photographer calls.
“Oh, no, we, uh—”
I start to stumble all over myself, try to protest, but all the words get lost between my brain and my mouth when Adam effortlessly shoves the scissors down while also putting his arm around my waist.
His big, warm hand is not on my shoulder, not on my arm. No, it’s on my waist. Like a brand, I feel his calloused fingers sear into the fabric of my skirt. They are splayed out, thumb pushing into my hip. He pulls me into his side hard and quick, without missing a beat. Now we’re flush on our sides all the way down.
“Got it, great! Thanks!” The guy behind the camera says.
I blink.
I think I feel Adam’s hand squeeze my side, but I must imagine it because in the flash of those cameras, Adam’s hand is gone. He is gone, off the stage like it’s on fire.
I do the rest of my duties, answering a few more questions from local press, signing off with store managers and the property overseer, and checking all the signs and displays at the front of the store one more time. Then it’s time for the long trek home.
I climb back into the car and I’m still bothered.
“We good?” Adam asks me. He always says that before we leave a job site, usually sending a snarky glance toward my giant bag or stacks of papers, containing my checklists and itineraries.
I nod but don’t say anything.
He adds, “Pretty good for our last one.”
“Huh?”
“Football preseason stuff’s getting too busy.”
He begins to pull his truck out of the lot. “Right. Yeah, Shep’s excited.”
“Shep?” He says my childhood friend’s name like it’s a cuss word. Then he seems to remember, “Oh, I knew that. You and Riggs are friends or something?”
“Yeah, close friends. His family sucks so my family kind of took him and his brother in.”
I say absently, not thinking about Shep. I’m thinking about the reasons why I am still so bothered that I can’t even look at Adam without blushing.
It was a simple touch that meant nothing. It lasted all of three seconds.
But…
The grip was so tight. So low. Our bodies were so close, so tense, like we were two thick ropes pulled taught.
I know I’ve been wrong already, multiple times, but I think I’m bothered because I’m sitting here wondering, is that how a guy touches a friend?
_____
“I’m starving,” he says with another grumpy glance at my papers.
“Oh, sure, uh, I didn’t plan a specific dinner stop.” He raises an eyebrow and waits. “Okay, fine, I have five different options.”
He chuckles under his breath and says, “And which one has some random-ass thing on the side of the road.”
“Actually,” I say pointedly, “I found a famous dive bar.”
“Is it made of imaginary string?”
“It was twine! And it exists!”
He laughs at me about it all over again. And I don’t mind because after the big, comforting sound that fills the whole cab, he twists his face to me and smiles. A real one. Crinkled eyes, white teeth, perfect lips surrounded by stubble that flows down his rugged jaw. At the startling gorgeousness of it I nervously laugh too, which sets him off again.
What is happening right now because I’m in the middle of absolutely nowhere…in a truck with the grumpy Bell who can barely stand to be my friend…
and we have the giggles.
When the laughing finally subsides, he sighs and says, “Man, we must be tired.”
“True,” I sigh too. “Because the twine thing is not that funny.”
“Uh huh. Just get out your dorky map and tell me about your dorky dive bar.”
I give him a glare with no real anger behind it as I take the GPS down and put in the coordinates.
Twenty minutes later, we’re in a small town with exactly one bar. And it’s a Friday night. We take one look at the parking lot and decide we should probably just saddle up to the bar for quicker service.
It only takes one step inside for Adam to wag his stupid eyebrows at me.
There’s no twine. But it…puts the dive in dive bar, that’s for sure.
Our shoes stick to the floor as we walk inside. We inch closer to the small plaque—under an array of vintage neon signs—that instructs people to seat themselves. It’s loud and dark, there’s actual cigarette smoke in the air, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much leather and denim in one room.
“At the far end,” I look over at Adam as he points to an opening at the crowded bar. He kind of fits here.
It’s not a biker joint but more a worker joint. Farmers, construction workers, probably some firemen. And women too, dressed in skimpy shirts and short denim shorts. Every foot in the joint has a well-used boot on it, not a sandal or heel in sight.
He motions for me to lead the way but he follows close behind and I appreciate the back up. This place is seriously packed.
“IDs please.” The bartender smiles at us. After checking our licenses, Adam orders an IPA type of beer, whatever that means, and I get a Bud Light Lime, the safest sounding option in terms of alcohol content, taste, and…cleanliness. My fingers are greasy because I thoughtlessly put my hands on the bar top. Nothing in a glass for me, please.
Adam leans over to me from his stool so he can talk over the blaring bluegrass music, “Anything on the menu they’re famous for?” I point to a massive sign.
Menu: hot dogs and fries.
No substitutes.
He lifts a brow and dips his chin at the sign like he respects it, earning a chuckle out of me.
“How many dogs?” The bartender asks when he sets down our beers. I say one and Adam points two fingers at himself. It’s so loud and jam packed, with both people and kitschy things—like a moose head next to a jukebox next to a modern art piece in the shape of the United States—that we just take it all in rather than try to talk to each other.
Minutes later our food arrives. Two baskets with the hot dogs, fries and little smaller baskets filled with topping options and various condiments. We fix our dogs to our liking and as soon as we take a bite we look at each other.
It’s…
It’s the most disgusting hot dog I’ve ever encountered.
Adam’s eyes go wide and I can see he’s about to smile.
I scrunch up my face in both disgust and defeat. Why couldn’t one place I choose to stop be worth stopping for? Just one?! Gah!
I watch his shoulders shake from laughter and even though I keep striking out on my landmarks, the joy in his eyes as he chews the nasty food feels a lot like a victory.
The fries are actually pretty good, so I stick to those. Adam eats all of his food, but he keeps glancing at me and shaking his head. I’m still working on my fries when he stands.
He leans over and asks, “You think I’ll get a disease from the bathroom here?” I roll my eyes at him and try not to smile. He motions with his head toward the corner. “I’m going in anyway.”
I debate getting a second beer, because I don’t want my tiny bladder holding us up again right after we get on the road. I’m thirsty, but do I want to chance a glass of water? Tap water probably? Does a place like this serve bottled—
“Hey,” a guy says to me.
I turn to Adam’s stool and realize this is not a guy. This is a man. An older, very attractive man. Green eyes, easy smile, backwards hat and a…yup his shirt is a Fire Department shirt. Knew it!
“Hi,” I smile back. It’s involuntary. He’s 100% got to be part of a monthly calendar.
“You got a hot dog, huh,” He points his beer bottle at my plate. “Rookie mistake.”
I laugh, “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Not a bad spot other than that though. I’m Jim,” he gives a little wave.
I wave back. “Susan.”
“Susan. What brings you way out—”
“She’s with me.” I hear Adam’s deep voice cut him off. Then I feel his towering body behind me, as close as he can get. His chest is pressing against my upper back and his hand lands on my waist again, fingers spread and curled into me even more than earlier today.
The hot fireman doesn’t budge. “Looked like she was all alone to me,” he says, looking at me as if he’s asking me to verify Adam’s claim.
Adam’s hand tenses along my side. “I just went to the bathroom, asshole, move it along.”
Jim raises his hands in surrender but keeps smiling at me. Adam moves from my back into the tight space between the guy and me, shifting so his back is toward Jim and his front is basically caging me in at the bar.
I look up at him, eyes wide.
He doesn’t look at me at all. Instead he backs up a few inches and leaves cash on the bartop in a hurry. I watch him swipe his beer off the counter and chug the last of it. I also watch his throat work as he swallows. I watch his arm flex as he tips the bottle up further. I’m broken out of the spell when he slams the bottle back on the bar and says, not really to me, “I paid, let’s go.”
As soon as we pass through the front door, finally breaking free from the extreme noise of the bar, Adam stops a couple steps away then turns to frown at me.
“Why were you talking to that guy?”
I frown right back. “Uh, because he was talking to me?”
He stops after a few more steps, hands on his hips. “So you were just gonna go meet in the bathroom or something? You don’t know that guy, he could’ve been a serial killer!”
“The bathroom? What are you talking about?”
He grunts in disbelief and speedstomps over to the truck. He climbs in and I hustle to get in right after. I’m not totally confident he wouldn’t drive off without me. As soon as we’re both buckled Adam smashes the air conditioning to full blast and then shifts toward me.
“That guy was trying to get into your pants, Susan.”
“What!” I almost laugh. “No, he wasn’t.”
“He absolutely was.”
I shake my head and then gesture towards myself. “Um, super dork, remember?”
His eyebrows raise from their angriest position, but just barely. “And, what, dorks can’t be really smoking hot?”
“Not usually, this one definitely isn’t.” I shrug. “He was just being nice! I bet they never get visitors in this tiny town. Trust me, I learned from your brother, well, and you, and everyone. Most guys don’t see me like that.”
“Like that.” He repeats back to me slowly.
“Yeah, like sexy spice. I’m more like smarty spice, sporty spice, cutie spice. Maybe even scary spice sometimes,” I start to mumble nervously.
“Why the hell do you keep saying spice?” He asks, exasperated.
“Like the spice girls?”
He exhales, gathering himself, though the steering wheel is squeaking in protest again under his grip. Finally he looks at my legs, “Trust me, in that tight little skirt you always wear,” His eyes flash up for a second, to my eyes and then…lower. “And that thin, soft, silky, whatever type shirt, all unbuttoned like that, he was making a move.”
He looks away and starts backing the truck out.
I am staring. And panting. I’m totally shocked into silence, which is why I hear him mutter, “Oblivious spice…frickin’…pain in my ass spice.”
I’m not sure how long I am frozen, looking at him. Studying his angry face and flexed arms. I know I look away, past him, watching the lights pass by his window. I try to process what he’s said.
No, the way he said it.
It sounded a little jealous. A little crazy spice himself, honestly. A little bit like he’s looked at me, at least sometimes, as something other than a friend. Maybe more than a friend. Maybe he—
“You gonna say something at some point? The staring is getting weird now.”
I look away but then glance right back. “If…” I need to choose my words carefully here. “If he was the kind of guy who is into me, my certain type—which, again, he wasn’t because he was a hot fireman and I’m telling you that’s not the type— but if he was, so what?”
“So what?”
“Yeah, I mean, we’re just friends, and you said you’re getting us out of this marriage mess so,” I shrug. “So what? Let me get it on in the bathroom and live my little smarty spice dorky spice life.”
“Will you please stop saying spice for shit’s sake!” He lashes out, totally irate all of a sudden.
“Sorry!” I yell back, looking away and forcing myself not to smile.
He’s angry.
Very angry.
Angry like maybe I wasn’t so off base after all.
Angry like maybe my future husband has a crush on me too.