Chapter 11
Constance swirls the bourbon in her glass. “You don’t mix it with anything?”
“Mix? With TX? That’s blasphemous.” I shake my head. “There’s a Dr Pepper in the fridge.”
She glances toward the fridge like she’s thinking about it, then takes a small taste and coughs.
I nudge her water closer. “Just give it a minute. It’ll grow on you.”
“Like a flaming rash in my esophagus?”
I laugh over the low thrum of Jonathan Tyler drifting from the speaker. Ben hasn’t made a peep, so except for the music, the house is quiet.
She sniffs her glass. “Seriously though, shouldn’t girls our age be drinking things like High Noon or Cayman Jack?”
I shudder. “Is that what you usually drink?”
“I did in college, but after, with Wade…” Her voice trails, and she turns the bottle of TX like she’s studying it. “He didn’t need to be drinking, so I stopped.”
“Did he stop?”
“Oh, yeah. Mostly.” She braves a second sip. “You’re right. This stuff does get better.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Good try,” she says, waving a finger in front of me. “But you are not sidetracking me again. We’re talking about Holden.”
“When you texted me, you implied you were having a bad day. We can talk about Holden later.”
“I was having a bad day, and now I’m not, thanks in part to this little glass of hellfire.” She lifts what’s left of her bourbon. “Honestly, Maggie, I’m fine. But I won’t be if you don’t spill the Hollywood tea.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Um, everything? What was he like today? Was he nicer? Hotter?” She leans forward, propping her chin on the back of her hand. “How did he smell?”
Like sipping mulled wine in front of a fire?
“I didn’t smell him!” I say, crossing my fingers discreetly at my side. “He was okay, I guess. Great for most of it, but then something happened, and he slid back into his default mode.”
“What was it?”
I shrug. “His phone blew up on the ride back from lunch and—”
“Wait.” Constance’s hand flies to her throat. “You went to lunch with him? Like a date? A lunch date?”
“We went to a restaurant and sat in the same booth and had food. Don’t plan the wedding just yet.”
“Where’d y’all go?”
“Lucy’s.”
“What did he order?”
“Chicken tenders.” I cross my arms. “Good grief, Constance. Would it thrill you to know he had a Big Red too?”
“No way. He did? What did he think? Do they even have Big Red in California?”
I rub my temples.
“Relax, I’m teasing.” She grins, then drains what’s left in her glass. “How’d the lessons go?”
“Awful.” I take a sip from mine. “Having a skill and teaching a skill are two very different things.”
“Yeah?”
“I have no idea what I’m doing. He has to count it out, so if he loses track, we have to start over because he can’t just pick it up again. And he’s constantly looking down. Aside from putting his head in a harness, I don’t know what to do to make him stop.”
Constance frowns. “I’m going to assume you’ve already Googled how-to videos on YouTube, right?”
“Some, but they’re useless. They just teach the steps, and he knows the steps.” I let out a groan. “Dancing is a feeling. How do you teach someone to feel the music?”
“Oh my God.” She launches off her barstool so fast it wobbles. “Maggie, that’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“The steps aren’t enough,” she says in mock bravado. “You have to feel the music.”
I give her a blank look.
“Are you kidding me right now?” She double-taps her hand over her heart. “Gah-gun. Gah-gun.”
“I know the reference. I just don’t know where you’re going with it.”
“What was your go-to motto any time one of us got in a pickle?” A laugh tears out of her. “Pickle! Get it? Just put your pickle on everybody’s plate…”
I roll my eyes at the cheesy line from Dirty Dancing.
“Yeah, okay,” she says. “You get it. Seriously, Maggie, think back.”
It takes a second to click. “‘What would Patrick Swayze do…’”
“Yes! And Patrick Swayze, aka Johnny Castle, would break it down.”
Break it down…
“Focus on one thing at a time instead of the dance as a whole.” My head jerks up. “Constance, you’re a genius!”
“It happens,” she says, reaching past me for the bottle. “We’re watching it, right? I mean, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
She tucks the bourbon against her side and grabs a slice from the box. “Come on, Calhoun. Pizza and Swayze wait for no one.”
An hour later, Constance is gone, and Ben’s still burrowed in his room, probably sleeping, which is exactly what I should be doing. Instead, I’m holding an eye open with one hand while the other pecks at the keyboard.
Growing up, I was obsessed with poetry: reading it, writing it, reciting it to anyone who would listen. Never anything dark or heavy, just lighthearted, whimsical stuff meant to make me (or my captive audience) smile. Poetry was how I expressed myself, its levity a direct reflection of its author.
But that changed when Mama died. Lighthearted turned heavy, whimsical turned hollow. I knew, if I let them, my poems would take me to a place I didn’t want to go. So I put down my pen.
My Aunt Zilpha used to say, “Happiness can be found at the end of a romance novel,” and I never understood why she had to go looking for it when we had so much of it already. But after Mama passed, the sadness became unbearable, and I went looking for it too.
Your debut, Where I Come From, was the first book I borrowed from Aunt Z, and sure enough, it delivered. From that day forward, I couldn’t read romance fast enough, and it wasn’t long before I picked up my pen.
Romance follows a formula, and it isn’t personal the way writing my poetry was. My characters aren’t reflections of me. Their stories aren’t my own. If I’ve learned anything, it’s|
“Mags, wake up.”
I peel my eyes open and lift my head from the desk. “What time is it?”
“Little after midnight,” Ben says, plate in hand, tumbler nestled in the crook of his arm. “Came out for pizza and saw your light on. How’s the essay coming?”
I glance at the cursor blinking mid-sentence. Probably not riveting since I fell asleep writing it.
“Okay, I guess.” I shut my laptop and swivel around in my chair. “I’m close, but it needs tweaking. Filming doesn’t start ’til next week, so I have time before Barrett shows up.”
If Barrett shows up.
Ben folds his slice like a taco and takes a bite. “And the jackass? How’d it go with him today?”
“Not great. Teaching is definitely not my calling,” I say, untangling the clip from my hair. “But Constance gave me an idea, so I’m not completely dreading tomorrow.”
“Was this before or after her very loud, very off-key rendition of ‘Hungry Eyes?’”
I snort. “Sorry about that. Bourbon definitely amplifies her.”
“As long as she didn’t drive. She didn’t, did she?”
“Someone picked her up,” I say through a yawn. “Her dad, I think.”
“Kind of late for Mr. Pembrook. I’m surprised he didn’t make her crash here.”
“I’m sure he’s just happy she’s back.” I make it to my bed and drop onto the covers like a sack of feed. “Will you get the light?”
He pauses at the door, grinning over his shoulder. “Remember freshman year when the three of us found that leftover keg in the barn?”
I let out a tired laugh. “For heaven’s sake, yes. One beer, and she was hammered. We couldn’t get her to stop singing.”
“You could probably hear her in the next county.” He chuckles and leans against the door jamb. “I can’t believe we didn’t get busted. Do you remember what song it was? She played it on a loop, some old country ballad, I’m sure. That’s all y’all listened to back then.”
Because that’s all Mama listened to.
“‘Bluest Eyes in Texas.’” A wave of melancholy washes over me. It was Mama’s favorite, and for a second, I can almost hear her humming along—until Ben flips off the light, plunging the memory into darkness.
“Yep, that was the one. Night, little sis.”
“Good night.”