So just then, we were walking through the mall, Shy with his arm around my shoulders, me with my hand shoved in the back pocket of his jeans.
Things were still great, even after the Natalie debacle. She hadn’t called and she didn’t pick up any of my calls or return any of my messages, but when I expressed my concern to Shy, he just said, “Keep tellin’ you, sugar, she’ll come back to you. Just give her time to burn it out.”
I took his advice, as difficult as this was, and decided to focus on riding the happy wave that was us.
That said, Shy was getting impatient with us keeping our relationship under wraps. He’d informed me of this two days before.
“At the Compound, gotta fake it with you. Bite my tongue when I wanna say something that would expose us. Life’s too short to fake it this long, babe. We both know that shit. We’re solid. We gotta come out.”
He was right. As time wore on, it was beginning to seem less an effort to test the waters of us, which were totally solid, and more a lie. However, considering Natalie’s reaction, I wasn’t all fired up to move on to the next portion of sharing the news and what that might bring. So I’d begged for another week, just one, then I told him I’d start the process by telling Tyra.
He’d relented but he didn’t pretend to like it.
In that time, I’d been rehearsing what I was going to say to Tyra and this was what I was doing, my mind going over my speech, when she came out of a store and we ran right into her.
Literally ran right into her.
Rosalie.
Shy went solid even more than bumping into someone would make you go solid.
She had her eyes aimed the other way, she turned to us, starting, “Oh, sorry—” then she saw who we were and went solid too.
Crap.
The instant her eyes hit Shy, her face paled and my heart clenched, seeing her expression.
She was into him, big-time.
Still.
Shy breaking up with her had marked her. Even over a month later, the pain was close to the surface, right there for anyone to see. She didn’t even have it in her to hide it.
Oh God.
Her eyes moved over his face, hair, shoulders, the kick-ass necklaces he was wearing, and she also didn’t try to hide the longing that infused her gaze during this journey.
I was selective about my country music listening and one of the artists who made the cut was Jana Kramer. I’d never been dumped, but she looked exactly like what Jana’s lyrics to “Why You Wanna?” put out there.
Hideous.
Shy recovered first and muttered, “Rosalie.”
She started, and her eyes darted to me then back to Shy.
“Shy, uh… hi. Wow. You’re, um… shopping.”
She looked at me and, without knowing how to handle this, I decided to try to smile a gentle smile. I was uncertain if I managed to pull this off before she spoke.
“And you must be Tabby,” she stated, lifting a hand my way. “Shy and I are, uh… old friends.”
This was killing her but, I had to admit, she had it going on.
“Yeah,” I pulled my hand out of Shy’s pocket and took hers. “Hi.”
Totally lame, but what else did you say?
“Hi,” she whispered, then looked at Shy. “You, uh… look good.”
“You’re lookin’ good too, Rosie,” Shy replied gently.
Fail!
I knew, and I was sure if the kick-ass country singer Jana Kramer was there she’d confirm, that was the wrong thing to say. That kind of thing would make a girl wonder, if her ex thought she looked good, why he broke up with her in the first place.
I figured I was right when she dipped her chin to hide her wince, tucked her hair behind her ear and mumbled, “Uh… gotta be somewhere.” She slid her gaze between Shy and I, still mumbling and also, I was guessing, still lying, “Good to see you Shy, and to meet you, Tabby.”
Then she took off.
Shy didn’t move. He also didn’t watch her go. He just stood there for a few beats, staring into space, and I gave him that time.
Then he set us to moving again, muttering under his breath, “Didn’t wanna come this time, not fuckin’ shoppin’ again. Ever.”
I decided the wisest response to that comment was not to respond at all. I just shoved my hand in his pocket again and walked as close to him as I could get.
We were in my car on the road when, from behind the wheel, Shy broke the long silence, “Need a fuckin’ drink.”
“Okay, darlin’,” I replied. I could see the run-in with Rosalie cut him deep. I had to admit, seeing that wasn’t real comfortable.
We drove a good long while and ended up in a honky-tonk between Boulder and Denver that still managed in that populated area to be out in the boonies. I’d never been there before. And since it was just going on four in the afternoon, when we pushed through the door, I noted the honk and tonk had not yet been injected. The jukebox was playing low, and there were three other people in the bar, two of them bartenders.
Shy guided me by my hand to the bar then, as was his way, he firmly guided my behind to a stool.
The bartender came over and Shy spoke immediately, “Two Coors drafts, one shot of tequila.” The bartender jerked up his chin, moved to fill the order, and Shy looked down at me. “I get slaughtered, you drive.”
Uh-oh.
I didn’t have a good feeling about that.
He blew off Rosalie for me and, fresh from that, he didn’t seem to have a problem with it. Not at all. But I just saw close-up that she was gorgeous and she looked pained. Obviously what they had ran deep for her, and Shy’s need to drink now said that, perhaps, he’d been denying that what he felt for her ran deep too.
And, if that was the case, I didn’t know how I felt about that except not good.
The beers arrived, the shot arrived, Shy downed it in a gulp then said to the barkeep, “Another’a those.”
He got another, he downed it and chased it with beer. Then he stared at his mug.
I sat beside him and worried. This went on awhile, and I was about to wade in when he spoke.
“Mom left Dad.”
Okay, one could say that was not what I expected to hear.
“Pardon, darlin’?” I asked quietly, and he turned just his head, his body stayed hunched over the bar and he pinned me with those green eyes.
“I was ten. Lan was eight. We got home from school, she had suitcases packed for us, said her and Lan and me were stayin’ with Grams for a while. Lan asked if Dad was comin’, and I’ll never fuckin’ forget her face when she said, ‘No, hon, you’ll see your dad on the weekend but Momma needs a little time with just Grams and her boys. Okay?’ ” Shy shook his head and finished on a muttered “Fuck.”
He turned back to his beer and threw back a slug. I lifted mine and sipped.
When I put it back to the bar, I asked carefully, “I’m glad you’re sharing but, sorry, darlin’, I don’t understand why you’re sharin’ particularly this, Shy.”
“Lan and me had no clue,” he continued, looking at his beer, and I knew he had to get his story out without interruption. “Came outta the blue. They were the kind of parents that hid any bad shit. They didn’t yell at each other in front of us. They didn’t even shout at each other in their room when we were in bed, or at least if they did, we didn’t hear it. He was, Dad was, fuck, I was a little kid and I knew he was into her. Always kissin’ her, her mouth, cheek, neck, shoulder. Touchin’ her ass, her waist. They walked, he had his hand on her back or his arm around her or he held her hand. She walked through the livin’ room, he’d grab her and pull her into his lap. They laughed a lot. Gave each other looks a lot. We’d go to bed, they weren’t camped in front of the TV, but sittin’ at the bar in the kitchen, sittin’ close, talkin’. Not about heavy shit, air wasn’t like that around them. Not ever, that I can remember. They just got off on talkin’ to each other. It was fuckin’ cool. I loved that shit. Made the house feel safe. So I had no clue why she’d need time from Dad.”