12. Twelve
The twang of a guitar floats from speakers in the middle of the campground toward our campsite as we eat a tense dinner that night.
“Yeah, so we totally have to go see what’s going on over there.” Marin cranes her neck to get a look at the people walking toward the small amphitheater. “This is so Texas of us. The desert, the music. I bet some people rode horses to get here!”
Her eyes twinkle brightly as she watches.
I snort between bites while Finn stays silent, pushing food around his plate.
“Hey, can you give Finn and me a few minutes to talk, Mar? Then we can go to the music?”
She shoots him a look before taking her plate and going inside.
I grab two beers from the fridge and set them on the table, taking a seat across from him.
Finn’s brown eyes go wide.
My eyes.
As much as he hates me at that moment, he still looks exactly like me. It’s the only thing that reminds me that no matter how far apart we get, we are still very much connected.
“Your dad and I always said we wanted to drink with you first. It was our plan for when you turned 18,” I say as I pop the tops off both and hand him one. “It’s only a few months away, and I feel like a breakup in a town called Marfa is a good reason to move the timeline up. Plus, considering the fact I’ve been living with my head in the sand, I know there’s a chance this will not be your first beer.”
I raise an eyebrow as his eyes bounce from me to the beer, then back to me.
I take a sip of mine and welcome the hoppy, citrusy flavor with a sigh before he does the same.
I fold my arms on the picnic table and meet his gaze. “I’m sorry Abby broke up with you, and I’m sorry I gave her a reason to. I’m not sorry we’re here.”
“So, is this some kind of bribe or something? You give me a beer, and I forgive you for dragging us into the desert?” He shakes his head, picking at the label on his bottle without looking at me.
“No, but I thought it might help. There’s an alcohol loophole in Texas for minors with parents. I figured I’d take advantage of it on a day such as this.” I twirl my finger through the air..
He laughs softly and takes another sip of his beer.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask.
“Not much to say. I’m gone for ten weeks. She didn’t like it. Now it’s over.” His voice is flat, face resigned.
“Well, she might change her mind when you get back. Or you might change your mind. Time changes perspective in ways we don’t expect sometimes. And sometimes people are in our lives at a certain time when we need them and fade away when we don’t.” I pause. “Your dad would have had something more profound to say here, I bet.”
He shrugs. “Dad might not have looked up alcohol laws regarding minors and then served me a beer, though.”
It’s almost a compliment.
He tilts his head to the side and looks at me, raising his beer up, which I gladly clink mine against.
It’s a moment I can feel being stamped on the timelines of our lives. A story he’ll fall back on later, maybe if he becomes a parent and feels like he’s doing a piss-poor job. Maybe he’ll think about this night in a weird town called Marfa and remember me showing up in my own messy way, beer in hand.
When the door of the Avion swings open, Marin fills the doorway wearing a denim skirt and rhinestone cowboy boots.
“Oh, that’s fair. The hussy breaks up with him, and he gets a beer?” She crosses her arms over her pink flannel shirt with a pout.
“Don’t even think about it, Mar.” I raise my eyebrows. “And how do you have such a Texas-worthy outfit?”
“Oh, Penelope, you underestimate me.”
She clicks the heels of her boots together and grins.
When we finish our beer, Marin forces us to the music.
***
The singer is a big, broad-shouldered guy with a short beard, cream-colored cowboy hat, and a Texas-sized smile. He owns the night in scuffed-up boots that effortlessly slide across the worn wooden stage with the beat of the music.
His voice is bluesy, but his lyrics are pure country, an unexpectedly soulful combination I feel all the way in my bones.
“This is amazing!” Marin yells over the music.
I nod and turn to Finn. He’s neither smiling nor scowling, an odd sort of victory.
Hipsters and cowboys create a kaleidoscope of denim, flannel, and leather across the crowd. The dance floor in front of the stage is filled with young girls twirling with arms overhead under strings of lights. Food trucks serving BBQ and beer are surrounded by people with happy faces. Like all the problems they have were checked at the metal gates they walked through to get here.
“We have to go dance!”
Marin’s gray eyes shine as brightly as her ridiculous boots as she takes my hand and drags me out to the dance floor.
I resist, but only just slightly, because the truth is, I want to. Maybe it’s the old-fashioned sound of the music, the beer, or the way the big Texas sky glows as the sun sets, but it’s as if dancing is the only possible option. Like time won’t continue if we don’t give in to the urge to move to the music.
I grab Finn’s reluctant hand, dragging him as Marin drags me. He shakes his head adamantly, but once the three of us are standing in the middle of a sea of denim-clad dancing bodies on the dance floor, there’s no fighting it. No stopping it. The music conquers every shred of embarrassment with each chord that plays.
We dance. Playfully and like we don’t have a care in the world. We dance like we aren’t running into the desert from sadness or looking for something we might never find. We twirl each other around the dusty corner of the world called Marfa in a way that reminds me that we might not be as fragile as we think.
Our hair is matted with sweat on our foreheads, but we wrap our sticky arms around each other anyway. We sing. In a bluesy rendition of Don’t Stop Believin’, every lyric reaches deep into my chest. So deep I don’t know if my heart will ever beat the same way again. Loud and off-key, our voices tangle with the singing laughter of strangers to become an anthem I didn’t know we needed.
When the final notes play, the music fades into a love-laced ballad, and we wander off the dance floor to make room for the lovers and strangers that take our places.
Couples cling together like magnets, and I imagine many of them feel like they are the only ones in the entirety of West Texas. A slurry of longing and sadness stirs within me as I watch, thinking how that would have been Travis and I had life not written our story so poorly.
“Isn’t it romantic?” Marin sighs as she looks dreamily at the dance floor. “Love in Marfa.”
“Not sure that’s the kind of love story the world is ready for,” I tease as I pay for drinks.
We find an open picnic table by the dance floor as one slow song turns into two. I can’t pull my eyes away from all the dancing couples as much as I can’t ignore the reality I might never dance with another man again.
My stomach twists. The thought of having some man wrap his arms around me makes me feel nauseous, while the alternative makes me feel devastatingly lonely.
I zip my wedding band back and forth on the gold chain around my neck until Marin’s fingers wrap around my forearm and stop the motion.
Her eyes drop to the ring in my hand but don’t linger. “One more dance?”
She shimmies her hips as the singer starts purring out the lyrics to an upbeat song.
I smile.
“Only if Finn’s joining,” I say, cutting my eyes to his.
He shakes his head, as if he’s annoyed, but I don’t miss the way he doesn’t fight us as we drag him out onto the dance floor for one more song.
When I crawl into bed that night—so happy I could burst—there’s an email waiting from Ethan.
Penelope,
I recall you reaching out to me after looking me up and doing your own research. If we are pointing fingers at creepy red flags, I’d say I’m the one who should be more concerned. I’m also shocked you opted to create a family-friendly environment over just giving your kids free rein of the liquor stash. Mine seemed to sleep really well at night after they spent their days running loose in my restaurant…
I’ll have to argue with you on being just a bartender. I’ve gone to culinary school and am a decent chef, but the few nights I’ve had to get behind the bar have been by far the worst of my life. I never remember what gets shaken or stirred. It’s like the Wild West back there. What’s your favorite drink to make?
And yes, on the frozen ingredients, I use them for soup. It’s all about language at that point. You’d say local in the description, not seasonal.
What else? I kind of like helping restaurant royalty.
Ethan
I don’t have the energy to respond, but I read it—twice. He’s funny, I’ll give him that.
“Mom?” Marin calls from the other side of my curtain. “Are you laughing?”
“Sorry, yeah,” I say, realizing I am laughing. “Just an email. Spam.”
When she doesn’t respond, I read it one more time before turning my phone off and going to sleep.