Their plate of fully loaded nachos arrived at the same time the other couple told them their game was over. The man informed Rennie and Graham he would break. The way he spoke rubbed Graham the wrong way. He also didn’t care for the way the guy stared at Rennie.
Graham stood and introduced himself to the guy, who said his name was Jon. They shook hands, and Graham ran his hand along the felt of the pool table, feeling for any bumps and gathering any loose pillings.
“You a pro or something?” Jon asked.
“Nah, just like a clean table.” Graham was far from a pro, but he could play a mean game of pool. He motioned for Rennie, who downed her margarita and came over to him. “Pick your cue. You should go first.”
“Wife know how to play?”
Graham smirked. “She’s all right. Sometimes I have to help her.”
Rennie started coughing, and Graham knew it was her response to his joke. She was better than Graham, but Jon and his lady friend did not need to know that quite yet.
True to his word, Jon broke and couldn’t knock any balls down. Graham and Rennie walked around the table, and he pretended to show her shots as they spoke to each other in hushed tones. Graham nodded a lot; rested his hand on his chin, as if he was thinking; and pointed a few times until Rennie decided where she would strike first. Their goal: knock in one, maybe two “lucky” shots before missing one, and let the other couple think they had the upper hand.
By the end of the game, more people had gathered. A couple teams had put their quarters down, calling for next game. As it was, Graham and Rennie would sit out two games, and then they’d start running the table on people.
Their plan went off without a hitch, and as Graham lined up the cue to hit the eight ball, he purposely tapped the balls together lightly, leaving the black ball on the edge of the pocket.
Jon rubbed his hands together before he reached for his cue. He added chalk to the end, which Graham thought was overkill. He had set the guy up nicely. All he had to do was tap it in. It almost pained Graham to watch, but he stood next to Rennie and focused on the table. He found himself holding his breath, wishing the eight ball wouldn’t drop. But when it did, Jon and the woman he was with, who never introduced herself, jumped up and down, hooting and hollering. Being gracious losers, Rennie and Graham went to their high-top, continued eating their nachos, and ordered another pitcher of margaritas and more food.
“Probably not how you thought you’d spend your New Year’s Eve, huh?” Graham asked Rennie.
She reached across the table and linked her fingers with his. “This is exactly where I want to be, Graham.”
With her was where he wanted to be as well. The only difference between his and Rennie’s sentiments was how he’d felt when Jon referred to Rennie as Graham’s wife. He wished he had asked her a long time ago to marry him.
TWENTY-FIVE
Rennie was having fun. If someone had told her she would be spending her New Year’s Eve in a bar in some small island town off the coast of Washington, and not in the mountains of Canada, she would have laughed and walked away. None of her colleagues would appreciate a place like this. Theo would turn up his nose and ask her if she were feeling all right. She was magnificent, happy, and at peace. The person she was when Brooklyn, Bowie, and Graham were around was who she wanted to be. Not stuffy, worried about work, stressed over whether an invite to the social gathering of the year was going to arrive, or always wondering if the man she was with would actually show up at her place as planned. She knew the answer—no, he wouldn’t, because he was married.
She sat on the stool, sipped her margarita, and watched Graham play darts with a few of the other guys in the bar, and every so often she would walk over to him and place her hand on his back or his waist and stake her claim. And each time she did, Graham would put his arm around her and kiss her forehead. There were nine or so people gathered in their area, and a few of the women were near Rennie. Everyone was chatting; they were friendly, asking her questions about where she and her husband were from and why they chose Friday Harbor to celebrate New Year’s. Answers fell from her tongue easily—some lies, but mostly truths. She never corrected any of them when they referred to Graham as her husband, and when asked what she did for work, she told them she was in private practice and that they owned a bar in Cape Harbor, and Rennie invited them to come and visit the next time they were in town.
When Graham would return to the table for a refresher, Rennie would flirt heavily, and Graham would reciprocate. Their chemistry was automatic, and it made the other women swoon when he winked at Rennie. He checked in often and leaned down to whisper in her ear each time to ask if she was enjoying herself. She was having a blast, and it was the truth. She couldn’t think of any other place she’d rather be.
When it was Rennie and Graham’s turn at the pool table, she slowly rose from her seat. Graham must’ve noticed her wobble and was by her side instantly to help her. “Are you okay to play?”
“It’s these damn shoes.” She slipped them off and set them on her chair. Renee Wallace would’ve balked at walking around a bar barefoot, and honestly, Rennie should’ve as well. But there was no way she was going to let Graham down. They’d lost their first game, and there was no way they’d lose their second.
They were facing two guys this time. Friends from college, they had said, which brought back a slew of memories for Rennie and Graham. They often ran the tables in bars to earn money while in California; they’d had hundreds to choose from and would rarely go back to the same bar more than twice. People always caught on quickly to what they were doing and wouldn’t play them, so there was no use in returning.
One of the frat guys broke and knocked down two solids and two stripes. The teams each quietly talked strategy. Graham wanted the frat boys to take the solids because he saw better angles on the stripes, and Rennie agreed.
“We’re going solids,” the kid yelled out. Graham squeezed Rennie’s hand in elation. She was going to shoot first, and if all went well, they’d finish with Graham sinking the eight ball. The first guy missed, and Rennie stepped up to the table. Somewhere behind her, someone catcalled. She tossed her hand into the air and flipped off whoever thought being rude was okay.
Rennie bent slightly to check the angles before she set her stick down on her hand. She moved the cue back and forth, slow and steady, until she was confident in her decision-making. The two balls touched, and her striped ball headed straight for the pocket. One down. She moved to the next and then the next, and so on. Each time Graham was by her side, working through moves with her. Their last shot was difficult, as they had suspected, and she did her best to block the other team.
The college guys were straight-up players. They weren’t hustlers like Graham and Rennie, and when they took their shot, they slammed the cue ball into the pile to break it up. These men had no strategy whatsoever. It was Graham’s turn, and Rennie coached him. They were a team. They were determined to win. He took his shot, sinking their last playable ball, leaving only the eight. He wouldn’t fail; unlike their first game, they wanted to win and run the table. With no hesitation in his stroke, he sank the black ball and turned in time to catch Rennie when she jumped into his arms. She went to kiss him, almost as if doing so should be a natural reaction for them, but he dodged her lips, and she was only able to brush his cheek.