recommendation to his old friend, Ron Turnbull, come the end of summer.
âIâm serious as a heart attack,â he said.
âPatty just brightens up this whole space,â Mary agreed. To Al, she said, âHelen Anne wouldnât like to hear you talking about heart attacks in that fashion, Albert. Considering your own father, God rest him.â
I had eaten dinner with the Rawleys on Tuesday night as well, fending for myself on Wednesday, and planned to meet them at The Spoke this evening. I was all quivery with nervous anticipation an hour before; I had showered for a second time, left my hair down, and stood in my bra and panties in front of my bedroom closet. Despite my best intentions, I had not yet done any laundry; I even had a roll of quarters sitting on my dresser.
This weekend , I promised myself.
I ransacked my clothes for something that was right. Suitable for listening to music in a bar called The Spoke.
Jeans , I decided, tugging on my favorite faded pair.
Too cutesy? I held up the buttery yellow blouse. It was very feminine and annoying, one that Camille had lent me. I tossed it onto the bed, atop an ever-increasing pile.
Too deliberately sexy? I considered a red-and-black striped tank, one with a neckline that fell pretty low between my breasts. Especially when I wore the bra I was currently wearing. I glanced down at my cleavage and reconsidered my bra choice.
Quit , I snapped at myself. It â s fine. But maybe pick a different shirt.
I finally settled on a cobalt-blue tank, a soft cotton one with silver detailing around the hem that I had always liked but never found an excuse to wear in Chicago, except around my apartment there.
Not because Grace once said that this shirt matches my eyes perfectly.
Not because Case once said I had beautiful eyes.
Not because of that at all .
But then I found myself applying an extra coat of mascara, and decided I wasnât above a little flattery. Things heâd said in the past still affected me, clearly. Maybe they had always been in the back of my mind, still very much there, though unacknowledged until recently.
I left the windows down on the way to The Spoke, almost vibrating with energy and nerves as I pulled into the parking lot there, already packed with vehicles; immediately I spotted Caseâs truck, tailgate down. Which meant he was probably outside here, somewhere.
Oh God, oh my God â¦
Calm down, Jesus, Tish.
I climbed from my little Honda and immediately stumbled a little, as I was wearing sandals with wedge heels. I caught myself on the car to the left, casting my gaze about to make sure that no one was watching; I felt reasonably certain that I had been unobserved in my clumsiness. I leaned carefully back in the car to grab my purse, though I hated carrying a bag into a club, for fear of it getting stolen. I could already smell grease and hear music, the subtle thump of it through the walls, and my heart began to match this heightened pace. I settled my purse strap firmly over my shoulder.
I hadnât taken six steps before I spied Case, coming out of a door near the back of the place, wearing jeans and his cowboy hat, boots and a belt with a silver buckle.
Oh wow , I thought, my feet stalling.
He caught sight of me in the next instant; he paused for a fraction, about twenty paces away, before lifting his right arm in a casual wave, giving me the sense that he was about to go right back to what he was doing. Though when I headed in his direction he waited, watching me somberly, the evening light striking the bottom half of his face. The top half was in the shadow of his hat brim.
âHi,â I said, stopping about five feet away, suddenly completely embarrassed. I felt as though I had done something unimaginably bold and my face was hot. Hot all the way back to my ears.
He resettled his hat and said in his deep voice, âHey there. Clark said you were coming to the show.â
He looked so good in
âIâm serious as a heart attack,â he said.
âPatty just brightens up this whole space,â Mary agreed. To Al, she said, âHelen Anne wouldnât like to hear you talking about heart attacks in that fashion, Albert. Considering your own father, God rest him.â
I had eaten dinner with the Rawleys on Tuesday night as well, fending for myself on Wednesday, and planned to meet them at The Spoke this evening. I was all quivery with nervous anticipation an hour before; I had showered for a second time, left my hair down, and stood in my bra and panties in front of my bedroom closet. Despite my best intentions, I had not yet done any laundry; I even had a roll of quarters sitting on my dresser.
This weekend , I promised myself.
I ransacked my clothes for something that was right. Suitable for listening to music in a bar called The Spoke.
Jeans , I decided, tugging on my favorite faded pair.
Too cutesy? I held up the buttery yellow blouse. It was very feminine and annoying, one that Camille had lent me. I tossed it onto the bed, atop an ever-increasing pile.
Too deliberately sexy? I considered a red-and-black striped tank, one with a neckline that fell pretty low between my breasts. Especially when I wore the bra I was currently wearing. I glanced down at my cleavage and reconsidered my bra choice.
Quit , I snapped at myself. It â s fine. But maybe pick a different shirt.
I finally settled on a cobalt-blue tank, a soft cotton one with silver detailing around the hem that I had always liked but never found an excuse to wear in Chicago, except around my apartment there.
Not because Grace once said that this shirt matches my eyes perfectly.
Not because Case once said I had beautiful eyes.
Not because of that at all .
But then I found myself applying an extra coat of mascara, and decided I wasnât above a little flattery. Things heâd said in the past still affected me, clearly. Maybe they had always been in the back of my mind, still very much there, though unacknowledged until recently.
I left the windows down on the way to The Spoke, almost vibrating with energy and nerves as I pulled into the parking lot there, already packed with vehicles; immediately I spotted Caseâs truck, tailgate down. Which meant he was probably outside here, somewhere.
Oh God, oh my God â¦
Calm down, Jesus, Tish.
I climbed from my little Honda and immediately stumbled a little, as I was wearing sandals with wedge heels. I caught myself on the car to the left, casting my gaze about to make sure that no one was watching; I felt reasonably certain that I had been unobserved in my clumsiness. I leaned carefully back in the car to grab my purse, though I hated carrying a bag into a club, for fear of it getting stolen. I could already smell grease and hear music, the subtle thump of it through the walls, and my heart began to match this heightened pace. I settled my purse strap firmly over my shoulder.
I hadnât taken six steps before I spied Case, coming out of a door near the back of the place, wearing jeans and his cowboy hat, boots and a belt with a silver buckle.
Oh wow , I thought, my feet stalling.
He caught sight of me in the next instant; he paused for a fraction, about twenty paces away, before lifting his right arm in a casual wave, giving me the sense that he was about to go right back to what he was doing. Though when I headed in his direction he waited, watching me somberly, the evening light striking the bottom half of his face. The top half was in the shadow of his hat brim.
âHi,â I said, stopping about five feet away, suddenly completely embarrassed. I felt as though I had done something unimaginably bold and my face was hot. Hot all the way back to my ears.
He resettled his hat and said in his deep voice, âHey there. Clark said you were coming to the show.â
He looked so good in
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