Chapter 41
The High Dive is every bit as rowdy as I remember it being at night.
A complete contrast from the daytime vibe.
Dark and lit mostly by the red glow of Mercy Brewing Co.
signs, it is packed to the gills with people, all damp and mussed from the rain outside.
Austin and I walk in as those first iconic notes of “Sweet Home Alabama” are played by the live band on the stage, everyone cheering in response.
It’s sweaty and smells of fresh fish and salt, but I love it.
We snake through the crowd, and then Austin separates and holds a finger up to me, one minute, then goes to the bar.
He stands at the service bar spot—the one that’s an absolute no-no for normal clientele, the kind of thing you can only get away with when you know the bartender.
And he does. He goes right over to him, and I realize I know him too.
It’s Charlie Rucker, the big teddy bear of a guy who looks mean with all his tattoos and resting bitch face, until he smiles and then you realize he’s the sweetest soul.
Austin steps onto the footrail to get more height and they do a bro hug over the mats and garnish tray, Charlie looking absolutely thrilled to see his buddy.
Austin orders something, Charlie goes to get it, and then Austin turns around to look at me.
One foot still on the rail, an elbow on the counter.
I give him a questioning look, one that says what are you up to?
He grins.
I actually giggle.
This guy is going to be the absolute death of me.
Charlie returns, and then Austin says something and points in my direction. Charlie follows his finger and then lights up as he sees me; then, I guess remembering Babe, his face falls, and he lays a hand on his heart.
I smile at him and lay my hand on my heart back.
I see Charlie ask Austin one more thing, see Austin listen as Charlie points back at me.
Austin shakes his head, laughing. Pushes his friend on the shoulder, who acts fake wounded and then looks back at me.
Does a call me gesture, and then a wave to say it’s a joke before going on and taking care of someone else.
There’s an awful lot of sign language, lip-reading, and body language detective work needed in a busy bar. I’ve spent so long in the frenzy of the kitchen, where curt shorthand and professional silence are the name of the game. It’s nice being out here again.
Austin slides sideways to get back where I’m perching, holding two bottles of beer and two shots up in the air above the heads of most people he passes.
“What is this?” I yell, then smell the shots. Mezcal, I determine.
He leans close, having to yell to be heard, but also close enough that I can feel his warm breath on my ear. It gives me goose bumps.
“The mezcal you like.”
I raise my eyebrows in response.
I don’t do shots like this. I don’t drink beer, I don’t do late nights at bars. I don’t … oh, what do they call it … have fun?
“Screw it,” I say, mostly to myself, then hold my shot glass aloft.
He clinks it with his, and we shoot them together. The liquid smoke seems to fill every cobwebbed corner of my chest, singeing them away, and goes straight to my head. In a good way.
The band starts playing “Hotel California” and I’m suddenly one of the people cheering.
“I love this song!” I shout, then sing along. “Cool wind in my hair.”
Of course, it reminds me of being on my own dark desert highway with Austin, but I don’t let the thought bog me down.
Like you do on nights like this, I become friends with the girls next to us by the chorus, even trading off lyrics at the echoed lines—“any time of year.”
At the end, as the band transitions into a less iconic Jimmy Buffett song, I gasp and smack Austin.
“It’s like us!” I yell, and then he beckons me closer to his ear.
I’m so close now that my lips graze him.
“It’s like us! We’re like…” I’m realizing this is too much to explain in circumstances like this, where concepts longer than a few words can never be communicated.
I try anyway. “It’s like we’re at the Hotel California, but we can never leave! ”
He pulls away giving me a confused look but laughing and nodding.
“It is!” I say, then throwing my head back and laughing too.
A while later, I lean over to my new friends and ask the girl what time it is. She gets her phone out of her back pocket and shows me the screen.
11:48. Saturday.
I tap Austin and point to the screen.
Twelve minutes. Twelve minutes until we know what happens for everyone else.
I don’t know exactly what we expect this to accomplish. In movies where something like this happens, the hacks don’t work. You can’t outsmart it. There aren’t loopholes. You can’t leave until you figure out why you’re there to begin with.
Maybe it’s the booze, but I’m very clear right now on the fact that I don’t want it to end yet.
It’s like my trip to Texas with Austin. I wanted to stay there.
In that limbo between worlds. Ideally, you have a life you want to return to.
Or maybe it’s like Austin said, maybe it’s just how everyone feels on vacation.
The whole oh my gosh I could live here cliché.
Oh my gosh I could live here, in this time loop.
But also … right now, I kind of feel like I could.
The crowd has thickened since we arrived, closing in on us in such a way that my back is now almost completely pressed up against Austin’s front. I feel suddenly panicked at the idea that this could end, and I could lose my chance with him.
Chance to … what, though? Resolve things? Win him back? How foolish can I be?
I have to step back another few inches, closer to him still, when someone in front of us starts dancing.
“Sorry!” I yell to Austin.
He doesn’t say anything, and feeling awkward, I allow a little more space between us.
He hooks his finger around the back belt loop of my jean shorts and yanks me back into him. Fully this time.
Damn. We’re doing this. We’re admitting it’s still there. The want I’ve been ignoring.
I turn to look up at him and he smiles at me. I turn back to face the band and rest a little more of my weight against him. He puts a hand on my hip, a thumb under the bottom hem of my tank top, grazing against my bare skin. I shut my eyes and almost lose my balance at this simple touch.
I hold the cold beer bottle to my chest, suddenly feeling very hot.
My ears start to ring as his fingertips extend under my waistband, only barely, enough to suggest without asking for more. I gasp in air at this and know he can feel it. Know I can’t hide how much I want him.
Then again, I can feel how much he wants me too.
Eventually I can’t take it, and step a few inches forward.
I don’t immediately know what I’m going to do.
Pull him out by the shirt and bang him in the bathroom; run away on my own—but instead, I do neither.
I go back to the girl and ask her the time again, apologizing.
She says it’s fine, and then shows me her phone.
12:01AM. Saturday.
“Can you tell me what day it is?” I yell to her.
She looks confused, like she must have misheard. I have to ask twice more, and when she finally answers, she yells back, “Technically it’s Saturday?”
I go through hell trying to ask her what night she went out, if it’s Friday night to her, but I feel like we’re caught in an awful Abbott and Costello bit, and I finally give up and go back to Austin and tell him what happened.
He looks completely unbothered.
“Don’t you care?”
He shakes his head. “Not really.”
I give him a questioning look, and his sage-green gaze drops to my body and back up again.
I bite my bottom lip.
He pulls me in by my waistband again, this time with his finger by the button, drawing me in so my legs are on either side of his, where he leans against the bar. “I don’t care what day it is,” he yells, “I just want to be here. With you.”
Endorphins rush through my system at his words. My thighs are hot and weak being this close to him. Every touch sends a shock wave of pleasure through me. Anticipation hangs in my chest.
Does it really matter if you make a mistake, I wonder, as long as you know it’s a mistake?
The band is on to the Beach Boys now, the music a complete dichotomy with the passion building between Austin and me. Cotton-candy sweet versus body heat.
“We should go back,” he says.
For a second, I’m afraid of what he means. Afraid he’s stopping this before it goes too far. But then I see the hunger in his eyes, and I know exactly what he means.