“Do you remember the thing with Jenny in tenth grade?” I remind her.
Cora raspberries at me. “Oh, let that go, Elyse. That was, what…fifteen years ago? They were kids, and it’s not like Jenny was innocent in the whole fiasco either, remember? She was just more vocal about making sure everyone knewherside of the story, and Lewis just let everyone believe what they wanted, since he was already the black sheep of not just the school but the whole town.”
“Let me guess, that’s what you guys talked about at the meeting,” I venture.
She shrugs. “Among other things.”
Our conversation wanders after that, from high school reminiscences to the latest gossip—Alan Peters isdefinitelysleeping with Amy Andersen, Cora insists, and she’s sure Macy Peters knows but Bill Andersen doesn’t—to the various and endless other tidbits of rumor and news and gossip.
After about an hour and a half later, and two high-octane Freddy Specials each, Cora decides it’s time to move on. We leave her car in the parking lot at José’s and walk the two blocks down the street to Field’s for karaoke, where she shoves another too-sweet tequila drink in my hands and signs us up to sing “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” We’re three numbers out, just enough time to finish the first drink and start on the second, which I down a little too fast. I’m tipsy enough to think karaoke will be fun, but not tipsy enough to not get nervous.
Finally, we’re up. I clutch my sweating glass in one hand and the mic in the other, and Cora and I belt out our song—I lean into her and close my eyes, pretending it’s just her and me in my bedroom, blasting it on my boom box and singing into hairbrushes. When I open my eyes after the song is over and suck down a mouthful of my drink, it’s to scattered applause from the crowded bar.
And as I look out at the crowd I see a pair of brown eyes watching me rather intently.
Cora and I step off the little stage and head for our table, and I feel those eyes following me. I take my seat—ripped vinyl cushions at a battered, sticky Formica table, with a metal napkin dispenser, a rocks glass full of tiny pencils, and a stack of request slips. I try to be surreptitious as I shift in my seat so I can scope out the owner of the eyes; he’s sitting a few feet away, alone at a table, sipping Labatt Blue from a bottle.
He looks like he’s pretty tall, with wavy brown hair swept to one side, wearing a blue polo tucked into a pair of chinos, a brown leather belt, and sensible shoes. Odd outfit to go to a karaoke bar in, but whatever.
I don’t know him—that’s what’s intriguing.
His eyes, too, are part of his charm. They are warm, exuding good humor and kindness.
I kick Cora under the table. “Who’s that?” I ask, cutting a meaningful glance at the newcomer.
Cora gives him a quick, blatant once-over, and shrugs. “I dunno. Tourist, probably, judging by the nerdy getup.”
I laugh. “Tourist? Since when do we get tourists in Clayton?”
“There’s an accountant conference happening in Lancaster,” she suggests. “Maybe he was trying to get there and got lost?”
I roll my eyes. “Lancaster? If he’s going there, he’sreallylost.”
She glances at him again. “Heispretty cute. You should go talk to him.”
Pretty cute? Puppies are pretty cute. Babies and kittens and newborn calves are pretty cute. This guy is…handsome. He doesn’t fit the “hot” bill, because his features are more classically handsome than Hollywood magazine hot. His hair is neatly but casually styled, his clothing is conservative and plain, but fits him well. Another glance at his shoulders and arms tells me he works out, and the midsection of his polo is flat, meaning no belly.
And he has a five o’clock shadow going on, and those eyes. They’re intelligent, curious. Eager. Inviting.
Interested.
“Go talk to him. Get him to buy you a drink.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need another drink. I need some water.”
Cora elbows me. “Fine, wateranda drink. You can’t poop out now, Elyse.”
I frown at her. “I’m not pooping out, I’m just drinking intelligently—drinking water to keep from getting dehydrated.”
Cora shakes her head. “You’ve had, like, five drinks in three hours, and we’re getting a cab home.”
“A cab? What cab? There are no cabs in Clayton.”
Cora snickers. “Well, a ride home, at least.”
I eye her warily. “Cora?”
“Elyse?”
