Page 73 of The Second Dance
I’m on to Andy’s tricks. Her tendency to run.
And I let her in, anyway.
Stopping at the entrance to the auditorium, I scan the crowd. I already know she’ll be long gone, but it hurts just the same.
I need something to dull the feeling.
My only focus is on getting bourbon on the rocks. I don’t see her until she speaks.
“Congratulations.”
I’ve known Becca Paulson since I was in diapers. And she’s been friends with my mom since high school.
She’s one of those Pilates nuts, teaching a class down at the hospital several times a week. Her black sheath dress exposes toned arms, delicate collarbones.
I’m familiar with Becca. Those crystal blue eyes that used to laugh at my shenanigans while my mom lost her shit. Her hair, those perfectly coifed blonde waves, has been the same as long as I’ve known her.
Becca and my mom used to have matching hair, but I guess my mom’s got a new look now.
“On the crown?” She says, smiling at my silence. Her lips curve into a smile, but it doesn’t quite touch her eyes.
I reach up, realizing I’ve still got the God damned crown on my head. Pulling it off, I toss it on the bar top.
She laughs, nodding to herself. “Just perfect. Another Thomas man who isn’t talking to me.”
She seems oddly disarmed. Fragile. I glance down at the empty glass in front of her, and the two empties to her left.
“Sorry,” I say, belatedly, “My mind is somewhere else.”
“With that Reed girl?”
I wince.
She laughs. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, Bo. This is Silver Bend. Everybody knows everybody else’s secrets. Though I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
I look at her, wondering how much she knows about Andy and me.
“Just… don’t hate me, okay? I couldn’t stand that. You were always such a sweet boy. Your mom’s favorite, even though she’d never admit it. And even if everyone else hates me, I just couldn’t stand it if you hated me, too.”
She’s rambling. I’m realizing that disarmed appearance comes from finishing three mixed drinks in a row. She’s drunk.
“How could I ever hate you?”
Her gaze sweeps to my face, tears in her eyes. “Really? You’re not mad at me?”
“For what?”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, honey. You don’t know?”
“About what?”
Her shoulders droop. “You don’t know.”
“About what, Mrs. Paulson?”
She frowns. “Oh God, don’t call me that. Call me whatever you want, just don’t call me that.” She meets my gaze, straightening her spine. “You have a right to know. About your dad and me.”
It’s like the floor bottoms out from under me. The background noise fades into a low buzz. “What about my dad and you?”
