Chapter three
Maureen
Ifound Bren and filled her in on my plan. After giving Billy a hard stare and a warning that she “knew a guy” if anything happened to me, she smirked as I left with him.
The ringing in my ears turned out to be temporary and immediately improved when I exited the concert.
Billy and I strolled two blocks in easy silence to the lot where he’d parked his car. When we arrived, he opened the passenger side door to a sleek black Audi.
I blanched. “Oh, um, okay.” I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been a car that would have looked at home in the VIP lot on the Microsoft campus.
He looked downward, pasting on a self-deprecating smile as I slid into the buttery soft leather seat. “It was my mom’s. She handed it down to me when I got my MBA.”
“Ah.” Even used, it was an extravagant gift, so I guessed his family had money. I thought of the ancient Ford truck my mom had maintained for years before her illness made driving impossible.
When Billy started the engine, one of the holiday channels for his satellite radio came on. A midcentury version of “Up on the Housetop” sounded through the speakers as he backed out of his spot.
“Station okay?” he asked.
“It’s good.”
The car drove like a dream over the bare roads, smooth even on the steep climb up James Street. Billy had probably received the same driver’s ed instruction I had—keep your hands at ten and two on the wheel—but like me, he drove with his left hand at midnight and his right resting on the console, hidden by shadows.
“You know, that’s what made me notice you at first,” he said, hitching his neck toward the song info on the dash screen with a picture of Gene Autry in a Santa hat. “You were mouthing along to that song, the ’80s one by that girl band—was it the Go-Gos? It was cute.”
“The Waitresses. One of my favorites.”
“Although you and I might have been the only ones to think so,” he added with a laugh.
I rolled my eyes playfully. “My mom would have labeled that crowd ‘too cool for school.’”
With his dark clothes, dark hair, and even darker facial features, Billy didn’t give the impression of someone who’d be into holiday songs. I also wouldn’t have pegged him for an MBA. Which was silly because it wasn’t like people went to clubs andconcerts in their work clothes. His black jeans had holes that seemed as though they’d been earned, not bought, and a chunky silver wallet chain rested next to his hip. As much as I tried, I couldn’t picture him in a button-down and slacks. Then again, his watch looked expensive. And there was this car.
After fifteen minutes of chatting about our favorite holiday songs and the Musicbox show, we pulled into the Denny’s parking lot just north of Seattle, in Shoreline. Billy slid his Audi into a space between a decade-old Corolla and an ancient Subaru with red duct tape over the left brake light.
“It’s funny. I’ve only lived in Seattle a year and a half, so I haven’t explored many places yet,” I told him. “But Ihavebeen to this Denny’s a few times.”
“Yearning for the soft touch of a pancake?”
“Um…what?”
“Sorry. Fun fact—Denny’s has a hilarious Twitter feed. I’m a fan.”
I laughed. “Seriously, I’ve made Bren—my guard dog you met at the concert—drive up here a few times. Seattle can be a little bougie for me since I grew up in a small town. Don’t get me wrong, I love the city, and I can order an overcomplicated latte with the best of them, but if I’m choosing, I’ll take sticky tables and pleather booths every time.”
Billy held the door open for me as we walked in. I didn’t miss his eyes scanning the large dining area thoroughly before his posture loosened.
It was after midnight, so we snagged a booth right away, but only one beleaguered server appeared to be working. Tired but friendly, she came over to grab our order, warning us it might take a while since they were short-staffed. We assured her we weren’t in a hurry and ordered french fries, nachos, and a strawberry milkshake to share.
Five other booths were occupied—two folks having solo dates with their phones, one older couple sipping coffee and eating oatmeal, a table of teenagers laughing without being obnoxiously unruly, and a two-seater occupied by another couple in their twenties.
The laid-back atmosphere was exactly what I needed. The concert had effectively drawn me out of my funky headspace, but sitting here in the middle of the night, I finally relaxed.
“So, tell me more about this not-bougie place where you grew up.” Billy’s voice broke into my thoughts.
I smiled, running a finger along the edge of my water glass. “Coleman Creek. About five hours northeast. Far enough from I-90 that most folks never have a reason to drive through. Everyone’s friendly. Not much to do. Small town as fuck, if you know what I mean.” I shrugged. “But it’s home. How about you?”
“How about me what?”
