Jamie nudges me. “Bar, booth, or dance floor?” he says, leaning close and speaking into my ear to be heard over the band.
I smirk at him. “Was that your idea of asking me to dance?” I respond, putting my lips to his ear.
He grins back. “It was my way of asking if you wanted to dance, or just sit and talk.”
“Drinks first, then dance!” I hesitate, and then smile even more widely. “And then sit and talk.”
The bar is crowded enough that he grabs my hand and holds on as we weave through to the bar, sliding between Abe Cowell and Grady Masterson, two of the oldest, orneriest, and hardest drinkers in Clayton, who are perched on their usual stools dead center of the bar. They give me terse nods, and stern, wary stares at Jamie, who lifts a hand to catch the attention of Sam, Vinnie’s bartender—yes, both bartenders at Field’s and Vinnie’s are named Sam, one of Clayton’s many odd coincidences. Jamie orders me a tequila sunrise, gets another beer for himself, and then we get a table where we leave our drinks before heading to the dance floor.
Johnny and the Walkers are into a rollicking rockabilly version of “Hard Day’s Night” and we’re in the thick of the crowded dance floor, bumping into people as we move to the music. I’m not the best dancer, but after a few drinks I don’t really care—I’m oddly relieved to find that Jamie is about the same: he won’t win any dance contests, but he’s confident and carefree, and he dances close to me.
His eyes stay on mine, and our bodies sway closer and closer, like two planets being pulled toward each other by the inexorable force of gravity. Time slips and distorts, and I finish my drink—Jamie takes it and vanishes, returning with two more drinks for us, and some water. A nice gesture but, at this point, the water is insufficient to make a dent in my buzz. We drink, and we dance. Johnny and the Walkers play through their repertoire of classic rock covers, from Led Zeppelin to Poison, Van Halen to The Allman Brothers, with a few pop hits turned classic rock thrown in for fun—their most popular pop covers include “Oops, I Did It Again,” “Genie in a Bottle,” and “Bye Bye Bye.” Which are their ideas of “modern pop.” If it’s newer than the year 2000, they won’t play it.
I’ve lost track of time and the number of drinks I’ve had, and the universe is spinning a little when I lean into Jamie. “I need to sit down, and I need, like, forty waters.”
He nods. “Same here.”
His hand in mine, Jamie leads me off the dance floor and to a back-corner booth far away from the dance floor and close to the pool tables and dart boards, where it’s nominally quieter. I slide into the booth facing the bar, and watch as Jamie weaves, only a little unsteadily, back to the bar. He comes back moments later with two empty pint glasses and a clear plastic pitcher of water. He slides into the booth facing me, pours us each a glass of water, and we both drink greedily.
He jerks his head backward, indicating the band. “They’re actually pretty good!”
I laugh. “Good thing, because they’re the only act in town!”
A brief silence, punctuated by each of us refilling our water. And then Jamie leans across the table. “So. Tell me something about yourself, Elyse.”
I decide to lead off with the potential deal breaker. “I’m a single mother to an eight-year-old.”
Jamie just nods, totally unfazed by this information. “Eight is a fun age. Girl? Boy?”
I need a second to recover from his unexpected response. “Boy. His name is Aiden.”
“Aiden, huh? Where is he tonight?”
“With my parents.” I lift my chin at him. “And what about you?”
“Divorced, no kids, just transferred to the area for a new job.” He lets the silence between us stand—a relative silence, since the bar is noisy with the band and the crowd—but only for a moment. “Since I’m curious about you, I’ll tell you about me first: I’m thirty-five, and I was born and raised on the East Coast—Nashua, New Hampshire, to be specific.”
“I’m thirty-two, and I was born and raised right here in good ol’ Clayton.” I smile as I offer my next fact. “I’ve actually never been west of Cleveland, South of Pittsburgh, or north of Philly.”
“So you’re a lifelong P-A girl, huh?”
I nod. “Yep. Well, I went to college in Baltimore, but that’s still close enough that I came home on the weekends to eat and do laundry, and then moved right back here after college.” And that’s all I’m saying onthatparticular subject.
“Until my recent transfer, I’d never left the Nashua area, except for a weekend in San Francisco a few years ago, and a road trip to the Pacific Northwest with some friends during college. So I get it. As small as it is, Nashua is a bit bigger than Clayton.”
I laugh. “A postage stamp is bigger than Clayton. We’re a blip on the map, and our town is more than an hour from the nearest major city. If wehada stoplight, we’d turn it off at night, and if we could roll up sidewalks, we’d do it.” I shrug, sighing. “But…it’s home, and I love it.”
“Never thought of leaving?” Jamie asks.
I make a face. “Of course I have! My entire teenage years were spent daydreaming of moving to New York City. And then I went to the University of Maryland, and Baltimore was so huge to me it was overwhelming. I was honestly relieved to be back home.”
Jamie pours us each a third glass of water. “Oh, man. You’ve never been to New York?”
I widen my eyes and shake my head. “God, no! I’d probably have an anxiety attack in the first ten minutes!”
“If Baltimore was overwhelming, I’d say if you ever do visit the Big Apple, go with someone who’s been there before. It’s its own world, let me tell you.”
“Did you live there?” I ask.
