Ordinarily, I could imagine nothing so mortifying, so maybe the small-town magic is real. Or maybe some combination of Nadine, Libby, and Charlie has knocked something loose in me, because without hesitating, I set my beer aside and take his hand.
18
I CAN SEE THE scene playing out like it’s happening to someone else. Like I’m reading it, and in the back of my mind, I can’t stop thinking, This doesn’t happen.
Only, apparently it does. Tropes come from somewhere, and as it turns out, from time immemorial, women have been slow-dancing to staticky country music with hot architect-carpenters as deep shadows unfurl over picturesque valleys, crickets singing along like so many violins.
Shepherd smells how I remembered. Evergreen and leather and sunlight.
And everything feels nice. Like I’m letting loose in all the right ways and none of the ones that could come back to bite me.
Take that, Nadine. I’m present. I’m sweaty. I’m following someone else’s lead, letting Shepherd spin me out, then twirl me in. I am not stiff, rigid, cold. He dips me low, and in the half-light he flashes that movie star smile before swinging me back onto my feet.
“So,” he says, “is it working?”
“Is what working?” I ask.
“Are we winning you over?” he says. “To Sunshine Falls.”
Someone like you—in shoes like that—could never be happy here. Don’t get some poor pig farmer’s hopes up for nothing.
I miss a step, but Shepherd’s too graceful for it to matter. He catches my weight and moves me through a quarter turn, all trouble avoided except where my heels are concerned. They’re caked in dirt, smeared with grass stains, and I am furious with myself for noticing.
For flashing back to Charlie carrying me up the hillside after our pool game.
From the outside, Shepherd and I still form that perfect, heart-squeezing scene, but I have that feeling of outsideness again. Like it’s not really me, here in Shepherd’s arms. Or like I’m still on the wrong side of the window.
The image is immediate, intense: Our old window. Our apartment. A sticky-floored kitchen and a waterlogged laminate countertop. Me and Libby perched on it, Mom leaned up against it. A carton of strawberry ice cream and three spoons.
It hits me like a horror movie jump-scare. Like I rounded a corner and found a cliff.
I tighten my fingers through Shepherd’s, let him draw me closer, my heart racing. I backtrack to his question and stammer out, “It’s definitely making an impression.”
If he’s noticed the change in me, he gives no indication. He smiles sweetly and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. This is it, I realize. I’m about to kiss a nice, handsome man on an unplanned date in an unfamiliar place. This is how the story’s supposed to go, and it finally is.
His forehead lowers toward mine, and my phone chimes in my bag.
Instantly, another window glows bright in my mind. Another apartment. Mine.
The squashy floral couch, the endless stacks of books, my favorite Jo Malone candle burning on the mantel. Me lounging in an antique robe and a sheet mask with a shiny new manuscript, and on the far side of the couch, a man with a furrowed brow, mouth in a knot, book in hand.
Charlie, hitting my brain like an Alka-Seltzer tab, dispersing in every direction.
My face jerks sideways. Shepherd stops short, his mouth hovering an inch shy of my cheek. “I should be getting back to my sister!” It comes out unplanned and roughly sixty times louder than I meant for it to. But I can’t go through with this. My brain feels too muddy.
Shepherd draws back, vaguely puzzled, and smiles good-naturedly. “Well, if you ever need a tour guide again . . .” He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper and a blue Bic pen, scribbling against it in his palm. “Don’t be a stranger.” He hands me the number, then hesitates for a second before saying, “Or even if you don’t need a tour guide.”
“Yeah,” I stammer. “I’ll call you.” Once I figure out what’s going on in my head.
* * *
Charlie pushes my coffee across the counter. “Precisely on time,” he says. “So I guess Shepherd didn’t break your city-person curse.”
For some reason, his confirmation that he did see me getting into the truck yesterday rankles. Like it’s proof that he purposely invaded my thoughts.
I tuck my sunglasses atop my head and stop at the desk. “We had a very nice time. Thanks so much for asking.” I’m mad at him. I’m mad at me. I’m just generally, irrationally mad.