“He said something else, too,” Kris said. “Go on and tell me the worst stuff. I’m nobody you have to care about. Just a guy in a bar.”
“I’ll cry again, if I do.”
“So what? I’ll block the view.”
“You have … pretty good shoulders,” she said, trying to laugh. “So I guess you could do it.”
“Now, see?” he said. “You already made me feel good. What else?”
She sighed. “Right. I’m going to say it. I’m fun naked, but I look fat in clothes.” It didn’t actually make her cry. Huh.
“OK,” he said. “First? The guy’s a jerk. Who says that? How long did you go out with him?”
Now, she did tear up some. “Four years. Without a ring or a promise or anything at all. There go my best years. What an idiot.”
“Right. Guy’s a jerk and a fool. You don’t look fat in clothes. You look great in clothes.”
“I usually …” She took a breath. “Wear them, uh, looser. For work. Or anytime. I don’t want to look …” Her face was burning now. “I try to be careful. How I look. So he was probably right.”
He’d turned all the way toward her. “You look pretty,” he told her. “And that’s all. Looking the way you’re thinking, though? Too obvious, is that the idea?” At her nod, he said, “That’s what you wear, but it’s how you wear it, too. Your attitude, where a woman goes past confident and puts it out there. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I’m guessing that’s never going to be you. You should go on and wear the sweater, or the skirt, or whatever it is. Go on and feel confident about it, too. You aren’t going to go too far. Not possible, from what I’ve seen. And yeah, a guy’s going to think you look hot, because he’s a guy. He might even try to do something about it. That’s not a bad thing. That’s your superpower. You walk in knowing that. You walk in owning that. Though you could have to practice shooting them down. Come to think of it, though, you did just fine with me on that one, so maybe not.”
“Yeah?” She wiped her eyes one last time, took another sip of hot chocolate, sighed, and said, “Then you know what? I want some whiskey in this.” And watched his smile bloom.
13
An Alternative Destination
For a guy who wasn’t going to get laid, he sure was enjoying this.
Well, right up until the bartender had poured a shot of Jack Daniels into her hot chocolate, and she’d said, “So tell me about the bad mood. You made me feel better. What can I do for you?” And wasn’t even flirting when she said it.
The boyfriend was right, and he was wrong, because when she did flirt, she didn’t seem to know she was doing it, and that made it so hot.
He said, “What color do you call those eyes?”
“Oh.” She looked a little flustered. Her hand went to her hair, then touched her curvy mouth, the upper lip with that deep indentation, the lower one so plump and full, you wanted to take a bite out of it, and he thought, Oh, yeah, baby. There she was again, flirting without knowing it, and he wanted to kiss her. Just lean forward and … do it. Gently.
He didn’t, of course, and she said, “I usually put ‘brown.’ Amber, I guess.”
“Gold,” he said. “Definitely gold. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“If you know,” she said, “why are you asking?” He grinned, and she did, too, and then she said, “Going to tell me about the problem?” Sounding sassy now. Getting her confidence back.
“It’s going to be one of those stupid things, I’m warning you,” he said. “I’m turning thirty-one in two days. A guy who’s thirty-one shouldn’t start a sentence with ‘My dad.’ Unmanly.”
“Who says?” she said. “I think people make too many rules about how they should feel. Your feelings don’t care about rules. My mom died months ago, and I still think about her every single day. I still miss her that much, too. Tell me.”
He stirred his drink, thought about how to say this without telling her too much, and finally said, “My dad’s an alcoholic.”
He’d never said those words out loud. They felt just as bad coming out as he’d have imagined.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s rough.”
“Yeah. He’d never agree with that, of course. Never drunk on the job, never stumbling around, but he drinks every night, and he’s a mean drunk.”
“Is he abusive?” she asked.
“No. Yes. I don’t know. Used to say crappy things to my mom when he was drinking, but I don’t think he hit her, at least I never saw it. He beat on us, though. My sisters a little bit, but mostly me. Not for a long time now. Pretty hard to hit me now. Not since I was fifteen or so, I guess. Not since I was old enough to hit back.”
“Is your mom still with him?”
He took a drink of cider, wishing it was whiskey. “No. She left. But my youngest sister is.”
“Oh.” She considered that. “How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
“And she doesn’t live with your mom?”
“No.” He didn’t want to talk about this. “My mom’s gone. Not dead. Just gone. But that’s not the deal.”
“Oh?” she said, but the look in her eyes said, You bet that’s the deal.
“I promised to go back there this weekend,” he said. “Sunday. For a local thing. A sort of party. And I’m not there, because I can’t stand the way he is. The way he’ll be.” He shook his head. “But that’s nobody else’s fault, and there’s a lot of folks there that I owe.”
She considered a minute, then said delicately, “How important is it to the … party … that you be part of it?”
“Oh,” he said, “I’m the main event.”
“Could you take a friend?” she asked. “Would that help?”
He had to stop and think about that one. “I don’t know,” he said slowly.
“It’s almost like insulation,” she said. “When you have somebody you know you can talk it over with later. Even just somebody to look at you and smile. You can sort of … hold yourself apart.”
“Fly in and fly out,” he said. “Same day. Could work.”
“Well, you’d probably have to stay overnight, because of flights, but see?” She smiled encouragingly. Exactly like Ms. Flowers. When you’d done something right, she’d give you a sticker with “Warm Fuzzy” printed on it. He’d craved those stickers. “You knew there was an answer,” she went on. “Do it on your terms, and you change the whole story. You flip the narrative. Do you want my help looking up flights and making arrangements? It’s a little complicated, getting in and out of here, but I’m very good at arrangements. It’s what I do. I can even try for the one-day thing, though I’m still dubious. Oh, wait.” She sat up straighter, which had the effect of showcasing … well, everything. Her breasts, though, definitely. There wasn’t a heterosexual man alive who could look at her and not register, somewhere in his brain, “Nice rack.”