“Finally. Why’s she so picky?” Quinn asks as we queue up at the back of the line. The two couples in front of us laugh at something one of the girls says.
“Money, mostly.”
“And yet she seems to have no trouble staying in five star hotels and redecorating their house.”
“Nothing wrong with enjoying retirement,” I reply.
Quinn lifts a brow, but I don’t take the bait. “Found yourself a date yet?” she asks.
I shake my head. “I’ll probably be running around like a madwoman. Maybe it’s better I go alone.”
“And miss out on an opportunity to make Russel suffer?” She gazes at the events calendar and the pub’s menu tacked to the wall next to us.
It’s not a horrible idea. Russel has surely caused me enough suffering. “I’m running out of candidates.”
She returns her attention to me, the tip of her tongue pressed to the corner of her mouth the way she does when she’s thinking. “Steve adores you. Have you asked him?”
Steve is a fellow flight attendant and friend. “He just started seeing someone.”
“Russ doesn’t have to know that.”
“But by July twenty-first, he might,” I say. “And I don’t want to cause any weirdness between him and Penelope.”
“What about Jordan?”
“You know how he is in the summer. Too busy.”
Quinn huffs. “He could put aside his kiteboarding adventures for one day.”
“Maybe,” I say.
“Want me to text him?” She arches her eyebrows and crosses her arms like the determined firecracker she is.
“I’ll do it later.”
The couple in front of us pays and disappears inside The Limelight. We’re blasted with the noisy hubbub and the scents of grilling food and someone’s perfume before the door squeaks shut.
We flash our IDs to the hostess, then I tap my card on her machine.
“Enjoy the show,” the cashier says with a smile.
Quinn and I thank her and step inside the bar. It’s dimly lit and cozy, with booths lining the left wall and circular high-top tables with stools in the center, facing a small dancefloor where people are already gathering. Behind it, on the stage, a woman with long dark hair and two guys are setting up.
To the right, the bar lines the back wall and is currently three rows deep with people while two bartenders are a blur pouring drinks and taking orders.
“Quite the happenin’ spot!” Quinn half-shouts over the din, her eyes bright.
I steer her toward the bar. Though The Limelight has been here for decades, because Dad and I moved to Boise when I was twelve, I never set foot inside it until last fall, when Annaleise brought me.
An acoustic guitar chord strummed from the stage draws cheers and applause from the small crowd.
Quinn grabs my hand and tugs me toward the bar. Warm bodies and loud conversations press in on all sides, but it’s festive and welcoming, sending a buzz of anticipation coursing through my body. Finally, we blast through to the bar where Quinn orders us each a shot and a beer.
“To your freedom!” Quinn cheers.
Laughing, I clink glasses and we both down our shots. The tequila burns like rusted fire all the way down to the pit of my stomach, but the hit of sour from my lime wedge softens it perfectly. Grabbing our beers, we weave back through the crowd, bumping and jostling past so many bodies it feels like we’ll never reach the stage. The temperature has jumped at least another ten degrees, or maybe it’s the heat from the lights pointed on the stage. I sip my beer while the opening band finishes tuning up.
“Thanks for coming out tonight,” the woman on stage says into the microphone while the drummer behind her adjusts his seat. Next to her stands another guitarist, a slim guy with a buzz cut and a sleeve of tattoos on his right arm. Set up behind them are several other instruments: a violin, a banjo, and a set of keyboards.
