10. Chapter Ten
Chapter Ten
Laredo
I finger the jacket of the expensive hardcover book Overnight Sensation: 30 years in the Making. Who the hell buys physical books anymore? I look up and scan the bookstore, tracking a scarce Betty.
She’s different. The way she dresses, the sexy confidence she’d always possessed, the carefree I don’t give a damn what you think attitude gone. She’s avoiding me and playing the part of a quiet mouse, two things I never thought I’d see. I spot the top of her head peeking over a shelf labeled Fantasy. A year ago, I would have yelled across the room an inappropriate joke about the meme-worthy genre, but I know she wouldn’t appreciate it today.
Especially since she is at work. A bookstore, of all places. The quiet is the polar opposite of the atmosphere at Driftwood. There, she was shouted screams across a room, unfiltered laughs, and fists pumping in the air for no reason loud. Her turnabout is startling. How did she wind up here? What the hell happened?
Olivia’s accusation rings in my ears. She believes it to be me. I need to find out if Betty holds the same opinion.
Applause pulls me from the Betty-induced rabbit hole. Ricco gives the crowd a bow as he completes the reading from his book. I huff out a snicker as the story of him opening for a huge rock star that could have been his big break early in his career was canceled because of an electrical outage at the stadium. I scoff because Ricco has told the PG version of the story that is legendary within the rock community. The truth involves a married woman, a backstage fight, and an ambulance. Story for another day, apparently.
I forget all about the story the minute Betty appears next to him.
“Let’s hear it once again for Ricco Hanlon.” Her gaze sticks to the over-fifty crowd of women in the front row. Maybe there is an AARP signup form included in the back of the book. Betty’s eyes never look up at the rest of the crowd, the tight, frozen smile on her face evident of the strain she is putting herself through, avoiding me at all costs. A not-so-subtle reminder of what she thinks of my presence. She should know better. I’m comfortable in places I have no business being.
As the applause dies down, she continues. “We’ll now take a few questions. Please raise your hand. I have a microphone for those that may need it.”
I shoot a hand to the sky, forcing her eyes to snap in my direction. When she spots me, her eyes scatter back toward the first row, the women giggling like teens. “You, there.” She points to a man adjusting in his seat three rows behind the women.
“Ahh, I didn’t raise my hand, but…” He stands. “Ricco, which song of yours is the favorite to play?”
I keep my hand raised high as Ricco gives his response. Asking a musician which his favorite song is like asking a parent which kid is their favorite. It’s always the first one. Nothing is ever as good as the first one.
But just like parents, we can’t say that. He’s been around the block a few times and has hit every pothole along his journey. Like most musicians, he learned by making mistakes. So, the audience swoons as Ricco names ten of his most popular songs, secure in his knowledge that statistically he’s named a favorite of each audience member.
“Thank you for the question. Who’s next?” Ricco pivots, staring at my raised hand. Betty doesn’t stand a chance of ignoring me. “You.”
I stand and whisper, “Microphone, please.” I bite my inner cheek as I watch Betty twist herself into a ball, attempting to figure out how to avoid being near me. She steps around the podium, pacing down the aisle, and stops two feet in front of me, pushing the microphone toward me.
I wrap both my hands around the book, holding it chest high as if posing for a photo. She has no choice but to come closer. I inhale her scent. It, too, is different. A spearmint scent you’d associate with a grandmother, not a thirty-year-old free spirit who dances on bar tops in cutoff jeans and tight tank tops.
I lean close to Betty, our shoulders brushing. When she doesn’t pull away, I take it as a minor victory. “Ricco, first, as a fellow musician, I’d like to say you are an inspiration.” My words are sincere, and I sense Betty’s tight body language relaxing just a little. “I understand you will do a special sing-along for visitors at the music festival this week if they donate to the local food pantry. I think that’s tremendous.” I reach for the flyer stuffed in my back pocket. “Excuse me,” I whisper as I purposely brush my hand against Betty’s hip on my return trip. A soft sound escapes her lips, and I fail in hiding the smirk of satisfaction from my face. My touch still elicits a reaction from her.
I place the book on the chair behind me and hold open the flyer. “Are you still looking for volunteers to help with the food collection?” I know the answer before he responds. Of course they are. That’s why the flyers are stacked high at the cash register and on every chair in the bookstore. I’m not one to volunteer to stand in the scorching sun collecting cans, not when I could be in the studio or on the beach. But the flyer holds the real treat.
Ricco points to Betty standing next to me. “I believe we are. You can connect with Betty right next to you. She manages the pantry collection every year at the festival. If you sign up, the email goes to her.”
I turn to take in Betty as if I hadn’t already known this factoid. She shared this tidbit with me last summer, and once I saw the flyer, I knew she may have changed her work address and appearance but not her passion project. She runs food drives year-round for the pantry and even leads a 5K charity run in the fall. “Oh, really? Looks like I get to work with two of my favorite people.”
Betty lowers the microphone and turns to face me, hand framing her mouth. “What are you doing? You don’t volunteer. Ever.” Her voice is filled with bite and indignation. Both of which I can work with.
“You’re not the only one who can change,” I volley back, happy to have her finally engaging with me.
“Not really an answer.”
“But it is a reason.”
Her brow furrows in confusion.
“It means I get to spend time with you.”
She shakes her head. “Nope. It means I finally have someone assigned to the empty end of the boardwalk in the blazing sun by themselves. Thank you for volunteering.”
She walks across the room to the raised hand of a woman. I don’t sit. I don’t look away. My gaze remains locked on the firebrand that is giving me the cold shoulder. I search through our history, a history that is filled with nothing but fun and happy moments and come up empty for the reason.
I should walk away. She wants nothing to do with me. She’s not the same woman I met last summer. My brother and Ariel are probably waiting for me back in the studio. I have a music career in shambles that should be my priority.
There are dozens of reasons I should walk away.
I stuff the flyer back into my pants and lower to the seat. I collect the book and glance toward the exit. It would be so easy to disappear. To walk away, like I’ve done a hundred times before.
I take one last glance at Betty. She’s standing next to the woman who is holding the microphone. The drivel or words are muddled in my head because all I see is one thing. Betty.
Her hands are folded in front of her, chin slightly lowered, but her eyes—her eyes are locked on me. A look I can’t read. Is it longing? Is it a please go away look or a please don’t leave look? I do not know.
What I know is that my heart kicks to life. A sudden pounding in my chest makes me take notice. Pay attention, stupid. Life is happening right in front of you. It’s a distraction that won’t be ignored. A presence I’ve never felt from a woman before.
I am here. She is here. Her best friend sent me that text for a reason. I can’t walk away. Not until I figure out what that look is about. Not until I figure out how she’s ended up at a bookstore, dressed like a librarian.
I shift my feet together and focus my attention on Ricco responding to the question. I’m not leaving. Not until I find out what the hell is going on with Betty Belle.