Chapter 23
LOCAL BAR
Ashton and Lollie left days ago. Our heated discussion making their departure that much more bittersweet.
They called to let me know they made it back to Detroit safely.
Lollie said it was much more bearable having Ashton follow her as opposed to him driving and taking control over every aspect of her car.
Regardless, it grounds me in the fact that they are hundreds of miles away.
The day they left, I sat around with my thoughts, petting Carya, and trying to figure out where I could have dropped the ring. I want to go in the basement, but Ashton actually scared me a bit with the thought of the air quality. Leave it to him to know just where to strike up my worry bone.
At this point, I am antsy, feeling locked up and secluded. A coil forms its way around my spine, edging me to release what I know lies beneath its tension. I still haven’t talked to Ry, but he is a constant in my mind. The more I try to push thoughts of him away, the more I find my need grows.
The clock strikes seven pm with no sign my racing thoughts will die down anytime soon.
I can’t shake the way my friends acted by pointing out the strange flaws of this house.
Their worry leaves me crawling in my skin, and I feel like I need to get out.
Be somewhere to clear my head. Anywhere but in this house.
Ashton may have taken his car, but I was left a couple of very nice, very well-kept cars that went along with the estate. I may not know much about cars, but I know how to drive. Well, kind of.
With that thought, I get dressed and jump in the black Cadillac to take a drive, adjusting the seat so my feet actually touch the pedals. The keys fall out of the visor above my head, and with them a small dried purple flower. One adorned with dried delicate thorns that break upon my touch.
The devil’s gift, I seem to recall from some unknown memory looking down at its sad petals. The ring. This flower. All trying to tell me something. Warn me. I put the gearshift in reverse, an overwhelming want to be out of this house being stronger than ever.
It’s a nice southern fall night in Louisiana.
I roll the windows down as I drive slowly into town.
The smell of the air morphs as I continue to coast down the dirt road.
The estate smells of earth and damp roots.
Town smells like spice, sugar, and secrets.
And the feeling you get when rolling through is one of high energy with the eclectic mix of people and food.
There is another feeling here though, and it matches the one I get at the house. The unknown hangs just above my head, permeating my instinct to let me know it’s nearby. The veil here feels thin—too thin—like something on the other side is watching back.
My car drives past an old cemetery and halts to a stop without warning. I curse under my breath. I should have checked to make sure the car was working properly before I drove it this far. Or did I even check to see if it had gas?
I turn the key again, but nothing. I look over at the cemetery, its stone tombs teasing me with their promised future.
I wonder whether they buried my uncle there.
Strange that I’ve never thought about it until now.
I have yet to see his grave. When was his funeral even?
Odd that I never heard a thing about it.
That last thought makes me gather my nerve and get out of the car.
It is dark now, and I’m thankful I found a flashlight in the glove compartment.
The remnants of the dried thistle blow out of the car as I open its door.
I watch as they all gather at the base of an established tree. A hickory tree, no less.
I walk the cemetery grounds, waiting to see his name pop up. Nothing. The wind picks up. My gut tells me to walk back toward my broken-down vehicle. A brush of something dense and snake-like moves across my shoe.
I jump up, my heart lodging in my throat. The trees seem different here, as if filled with the souls of the ones laid to rest on these grounds, waiting anxiously for their next fill. The shadows of their branches reach out to grab me.
I hear a twig crunch as if from soft steps. The flashlight flickers as I rush to the car, but I make it. I give the ignition another go, and it spurs to life. Thank the Gods. Breaking down next to a cemetery all night is the last thing I need.
I’ve been driving well over thirty minutes, doing multiple circles around this tiny bayou town. Thinking hard about the fact that my uncle’s grave was nowhere to be found. Perhaps they cremated him, but then where are his remains? The thought ruminates in my head until I can hold it no more.
I find a small bar that doesn’t even seem as if it's open, but the door swings wide and the sound of conversation over music floats through the open windows of the car. I decide to go in. Maybe a local bar full of strangers is just what I need to clear my mind. It’s dark and smoky like the bars of Detroit, but the very jazzy music changes that comparison in an instant.
Full of people all around talking and watching the stage, where a beautiful leggy woman with dark skin is singing a sorrowful tune.
Pulling me in as if roots sinking into the bayou.
I’ve never heard a more haunting song. I sit and watch in a trance, like everyone else who is just as captivated by this marvelous melodic creature.
When she is done, she bows and walks offstage. The man, who must own the bar, pops on the mic and tells everyone to give Miss Cypress a round of applause. Even here in the depths of civilization, the trees hold their ownership.
The next act comes on the saxophone, playing a more upbeat, buzzy tune.
Its jovial beat making me grasp the reality I find myself in.
I look to the bar then, no longer a slave to the song.
My drink of choice tonight is a whiskey sour, not my usual, but maybe embracing something new is just what I need.
I feel him before I see him, his eyes fixed from a darkened corner. Ry. Thankfully, the smoky darkness of the bar keeps from revealing the relief on my face that he is here. This man is a drug, and I can’t stop with just a taste.
He radiates toxicity, and for whatever reason, I am drawn to it, especially now that he is near. But I don’t want him to see the pleasure on my face, not after the way he treated me and then ghosted for weeks, which I guess is just as much my fault as his.
He strolls up behind me, leaning down to whisper in my ear.
“I can’t tell whether our meeting like this is a good thing or a bad thing. What do you think?” His breath is hot and smells of caramel bourbon. I love the way his words linger on my skin. I shiver. He must feel me underneath him.
“Mmmm yes, I agree,” he purrs, and I can feel him grinning next to my ear.
I spin around on my barstool, thinking he will back up, but he doesn’t. Acting as if we haven’t just spent weeks avoiding each other. His hands brace the bar over me, so our faces are almost touching as I look up at him. Eyes linked. Mine in defiance, his in challenge.
What our gaze says in those four minutes could fill the room. There is only us, and it has been this way time and time again. But he disrespected my boundaries. Acting as if he held sway in what I do. Who I see. I won’t allow it.
His hand reaches to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, then comes to rest on the dip where my waist meets my hip.
Damn his hands. I look down at it, wishing him away no longer.
Damn my reaction to him. He moves his hand down lower to grasp tighter.
My body responds. He tips my chin up, so we are eye to eye yet again. And damn his eyes.
In a room full of strangers, I can tell it is no coincidence we found each other in this bar tonight. It was always meant to be.
“Let’s go,” his voice is as rough as his grip, and I can tell he feels as on edge as I do. If I give in now, I’m done for. There is no going back.
Letting my body guide me, I take his hand as he leads me out of the bar and right into his car. And in that moment, I know, I never stood a chance.