The Luckiest

by Wendy Owens

  My breath catches in my throat as his hand grips my wrist. I’m no longer laughing. I’m not breathing. I’m just watching and waiting. He leans in closer to me. “I’m sorry, what I meant before was how much you’ve done with your life since you left the tour. You always were incredible, that hasn’t changed.”

  “All right, you have to shut up now.”

  “What?” He laughs at me. I look away; I can feel that my cheeks are hot. “Okay, I’ll stop. I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.”

  “Oh, please, you love embarrassing me,” I correct him.

  He grins, “Who, me?”

  “Don’t we have somewhere to be?” I can’t quit smiling.

  “Oh right,” Dean exclaims, rushing over to the main door, waiting for me to exit.

  He’s so close to me now, just behind me, over my shoulder. My hair flutters as his warm breath tickles the back of my neck. An electric surge runs down my spine. I’m hesitating. Move, damn it! Open the door. You look insane.

  “Let me get that,” he offers, his voice is deep and smooth.

  He reaches over me and pushes the door open. I step outside, the cool air washing over me and snapping me back to reality. He follows me out, and I turn, slipping my key into the bolt and locking the door behind us.

  As I turn, I feel his hand slip down to my lower back, and it arches. He lifts a single hand and points north. “It’s this way.”

  I move forward quickly, trying to increase the distance between Dean’s touch and myself. “Where?”

  “A place called Neons,” he replies.

  “Oh yeah, I know that place. They’ve got a great outdoor patio area right in the middle of it.” I attempt to continue the conversation, focusing on the passing traffic and sidewalk instead of his eyes.

  “Yeah, the owner seems really cool. She said she would leave the keys at the bar so we could check the place out whenever,” he answers.

  “That’s nice. I think her name’s Molly,” I say hesitantly.

  “You know her?”

  “She’s involved in a lot of places around here. She has a book out about cocktails as well. Kind of looks like an old fashioned pin-up girl, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s her.”

  I smile and coyly peer up at him for a moment. “I’m a bit envious of her ink.”

  “What? You have beautiful tattoos.”

  “But she really went for it, you know? Double sleeves and everything.”

  “Nothing says you can’t do that,” he starts, “but I think you’re pretty perfect.”

  Damn it! There’s that heart flutter he keeps causing.

  “Can I make a confession?”

  “Juicier the better,” Dean adds without missing a beat.

  My cheeks are hot before I even say the words, “I kind of have a girl crush on her. She’s so beautiful.” He’s quiet. I feel panic rush over me. I laugh nervously. “Okay, have I totally freaked you out?”

  I glance up at him, and he glares down at me mischievously. “No, I’m just trying to think of horribly depressing things so I don’t get a raging hard-on.”

  My mouth drops open as we come to a stop directly in front of the bar. “You wait here,” he directs. “I’ll run in and get the keys.”

  The words ‘raging hard-on’ keep repeating in my mind. I turn and lean against the exterior brick wall, watching the people around, trying to think of anything besides the image Dean just placed in my thoughts. A local taco food truck is parked directly out in front of the bar, and a long line of staggering patrons are waiting patiently with their mouths hanging open. My thoughts shift to what geniuses the owners of that food truck must be. I have a monstrous monthly overhead for the restaurant, and they park right where there is peak demand and then park in their driveway when they’re done. Pure genius.

  “Hungry?” Dean’s voice startles me.

  “Huh?” I gasp, then giggle. “Oh, no, I was just thinking what a smart business model food trucks are.”

  “Expanding already?” he asks, walking to a door on my right and slipping a key into the hole.

  “Oh God, no, my hands are full as it is.”

  “This way, my dear,” Dean announces, waving toward the entrance.

  I climb the wooden stairs. They’re creaking, and there is a smell of saw dust in the air. The music from the bar is loud. Climbing up beyond the top stair, I turn and make my way into the space. Somewhere behind me Dean flicks on the light. In a flash, the space becomes clear. It is a large, open, and narrow room. The floors are a rough finish that show the age of the building, the walls brick with flaking white paint. At the front of the room there are four massive windows that I can only imagine would allow in a ton of natural light. The space is big, and I can picture it being spectacular with a little work.

  “So what do you think?” he asks.

  I pull my lips tight. “Good, I guess.”

  “You guess? Is there something wrong with it?”

  “I’m just not the person to ask about a recording studio. I would think the bar would be a bad thing since it’s so loud.”

  “Nah, by the time they get going my clients would be done,” he explains. “Do you like it?”

  I begin to pace the room from one side to the other, looking out the window and watching the taco line slowly move. “It’s a pretty awesome part of town, and it does have a lot of character. Jesus, how high are these ceilings?”

  “I know, right? This place has some kick ass acoustics,” he adds.

  “But—” I stop myself.

  He crosses to stand next to me. “But what?”

  “Nothing.” I shake my head. “Never mind.”

  “Mac, please. I asked you here because I wanted your opinion,” he pleads.

  I swallow hard and hope what I am about to say doesn’t offend him. “Is this really your dream?”

  “What? Owning a studio?”

  “Yeah, when we met you were touring and seemed to be pretty successful with your band. You looked so happy on stage.”

  “We had our run,” he answers.

  “And you just want to give that up?” I press.

  He sighs deeply. “I don’t know. I guess I don’t feel like I’m giving up anything. I like working with music, so I think as long as it’s in my life I’m happy. Besides, life on the road can get exhausting.”

  “You sound like an old man or something.”

  “I’m serious. Sometimes all I want is to put down some roots, you know?”

  I shrug. I had roots, and I know that doesn’t always stick. “Why here? Why not be close to your mom?”

  “Too many ghosts in Atlanta.”

  “Yeah, I know how hard that can be.”

  “Oh God, Mac … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

  Shaking my head, I stop him, “I know you didn’t. I’m fine. But just a warning, ghosts tend to follow you. And I still think it will be too hard to be this far from your mom.”

  “I can visit until she gets paroled, and if I live here, it will be easier for her to petition to move residency when she’s released.”

  “You’ve really thought this out, haven’t you?”

  Dean moves closer to me, and I feel the urge to step back, create more distance between us, but I don’t. “Wanting to get away from my past wasn’t the reason I chose Cincinnati.”

  My face goes hot, and I lick my lips. “Oh yeah?”

  He’s even closer to me now. He reaches out and takes my hand into his. My hands are dry from the cleaning products at the restaurant, and I can’t help wonder if he notices. “I think I made it pretty clear why I’m here.”

  “I know, but—”

  “But what? Have you met someone else?”

  “No, but I’m focused on the restaurant and making it a success. I don’t know if I have time for anything else.” I want to tell him I’ve been a fool. That I want to share this exciting journey with him, but I’m still too scared to say the words. Old fears keep creeping in.

  “I
stayed away because you said that was what you wanted. Mac, I was miserable. In my entire life, you have been the only woman to actually understand me.”

  I can’t let him go on. “I’m still broken, Dean. I’m not good for you.”

  “It’s because you’re broken that you’re perfect for me. It’s the reason we connect, and I know that now.” His words make my chest ache. I’ve missed him, his smile, his laugh, his sense of humor, those eyes, and oh God, the touch of his skin.

  “Mac? Say something,” he pleads.

  “What do you want me to say?” He lets go of my hand, and a loneliness washes over me immediately.

  “Tell me you want me here,” he replies, staring at my face.

  I shake my head. He’s asking too much of me. “I can’t tell you to stay.”

  “Why not?” His bluntness shocks me.

  I maneuver around him, walking to the top of the stairwell, but he matches me stride for stride. I’m trapped; I can either turn and face him or go running down the stairs and out to the street like a mad woman. I turn, look at him, and decide to tell him the truth, “Because, I can never be what you want me to be.”

  “And what do I want you to be?” He’s grinning, and it infuriates me. Why is he smiling? “I never asked you to be anything but yourself.” There’s a laugh at the end of his words.

  “What’s so funny?” I demand defensively.

  “It’s … just … don’t you see? I stayed away because I thought I couldn’t be what you needed. You’re trying to avoid even giving this a shot because you think you can’t be what I need. We can’t get out of our own damn ways to make this work.”

  “You want me to be available in ways I’m not ready for.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “I may never be available.”

  “Damn it, Mac! There comes a point when you have to let go,” Dean says in a tone I haven’t heard since our fight that night in the bus station. My defenses immediately go up as my spine stiffens.

  “Screw you! I don’t have to do anything.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “How else could you have meant it? You commit your life to someone, then when they are ripped away from you I want to know how easy it is for you to just let go.” My voice is trembling.

  “Think about it … what’s so terrible about letting someone love you again? Wouldn’t Travis want you to be happy again?”

  “He’s not here to tell me that, is he?”

  “Wouldn’t you want him to be happy if the situation were reversed?”

  “No!” I’m shouting. I don’t shout. But right now I am. “I’d want to be here with him, with our daughter.”

  “It’s not fair what happened to you, but you can’t change it. I wanted to grow up with my mother in my life, but that’s not the hand I was dealt.”

  “I can’t do this,” I huff.

  I try to take off, retreat down the steps and into the safety of the night. Anywhere but here. I’m not moving. I can feel his hand gripping my wrist. “I’m not letting you run away.”

  “Let go of me.”

  “Not until you talk to me.”

  “I have nothing to say,” I snap.

  “Then maybe I should go.” His words sting. I wish the battle between my head and my heart would end. I know I’m better with him in my life, so why can’t I say the words to him? Why is a piece of me still holding onto this fear? Let go, damn it!

  “Maybe you should,” I reply, standing firm. You don’t mean that.

  He releases me, lowering his eyes. There is despair and sadness on his face. I wish I hadn’t been the one to inflict the pain. His voice is quiet as he asks, “Is that what you really want? You want me to go away?”

  I hesitate; if I tell him to leave, I know he will. At last I answer, “I don’t want anything.”

  He’s practically on top of me. If I take one step back, I will topple down the stairs. I can feel his breath on me. He is so close I am forced to look into his eyes, and in a flash I’m locked in his gaze. The silence sits between us for a moment and the anticipation grows. What will happen next? Do I speak? Will he say something?

  “You don’t want anything?” His voice is a rugged whisper now.

  I shake my head.

  “So you don’t want me to kiss you right now? Because that’s what I want more than anything in the world.”

  “Dean,” I squeak out in protest.

  “Help me understand. Is it guilt? Is that why you can’t let yourself be happy?”

  “Not anymore,” I answer honestly.

  “Is it me? Don’t you think I could make you happy?”

  “For a time.” My words seem to wound him, and he staggers back slightly. I probably should use the opportunity to escape, but instead I foolishly move forward, reaching out and touching his arm in an attempt to soften the blow of my previous statement.

  “So you think I’ll hurt you?”

  “Of course, it’s inevitable. Everyone leaves and that hurts.” I know he understands this from what he experienced in his own childhood.

  “I used to think the same thing—my dad, my mom, and then Grams died a few years ago. It took me a long time to realize none of it was my fault.”

  “Is that what you think? That somehow I think I’m to blame for everyone in my life who has died? People die, it’s no one’s fault. I get that.”

  “But—”

  “No, you don’t get it. I can’t lose anyone else. I can’t lose you … it would kill me.”

  “But I’m right here.”

  “Until you die, too. Everyone dies, Dean, and that’s just how it is. It hurts too much. That night when Pete was in the motorcycle accident, and I thought it was you, it felt like Travis all over again. That’s when I decided I’d rather be alone than feel that pain again.”

  He’s quiet, and I can tell he’s thinking about what I’ve said. Then he plainly says, “I’m going to die, you’re right; but we all are, and if I have ten minutes left on Earth, the only way I would want to spend them is with you.”

  His words are like a sucker punch to the gut, knocking all the air out of me. “Shut up,” I gasp.

  “I mean it. The best day of my life was when you came into it. And I think you feel the same way.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not? Too close to the truth? You might be risking pain, Mac, but you will be gaining so much happiness for the risk.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I know how you make me feel, and I also know I would do anything in my power to make you feel the same.”

  There is a buzzing in my head, and my knees are weak. I turn to walk away. I need to get away from him. His hands easily ensnare me, pulling me in against his body, his heat consuming me.

  “What are you—” Dean doesn’t wait for me to finish asking the question. He presses his lips to mine, and without any consideration, I don’t resist. His tongue parts my lips, and the deep and passionate kiss causes the rest of my body to go limp. He’s there, though, his strong arms waiting to catch me.

  The kiss blurs all other thoughts—thoughts of what I’ve lost, thoughts of running, thoughts of resisting. I’m here and, in this moment, I am his. When his lips pull away, I speak the first words that pop into my mind.

  “I’m scared,” I whisper, his arms wrapping around me.

  “Good. Scared means you’re feeling something, that you’re alive.” And he is right. I’m so alive.

  I glance around, taking stock of the meal I’ve prepared. Behind me I hear my phone ding with a text message alert. I don’t rush over to look at it, as I am pretty confident I know who sent it.

  “Mac,” Monica gasps, looking at me as if I must be in some other world. “Your phone.”

  “I heard it,” I confirm, continuing to take stock of the containers.

  Shoving the remainder of the apple slice she had been munching on into her mouth, she moves swiftly. She retrieves my phone and be
gins flipping through the screens. A huff escapes her lips.

  “Is there a problem?” I pause, turning and receiving her disapproving glare.

  “Clingy much?”

  “What are you talking about?” I snap.

  “How long have you and Dean been dating?”

  I furrow my brow in an attempt to let her know I don’t like where this conversation is headed. Based on her face, though, I can see she doesn’t care. “I think dating is kind of a strong word.”

  She drops my phone on the counter, the clash of it against the metal causing her to wince. Grinning, she whispers, “Sorry.” She then seamlessly continues with her interrogation. “The two of you eat almost every meal together, and last weekend you went antiquing. If that’s not dating, I don’t know what is.”

  “We were not antiquing,” I quickly defend, then grin at the humor of her statement. “We were looking for vintage music equipment.”

  “Yeah, like I said, dating.”

  “We’ve decided we’re not labeling it.”

  “Please.” She laughs at my statement. “That’s only because he knows how terrified you are of relationships, and he doesn’t want to scare you off. You’re a couple.”

  I smile, and though I won’t admit it to her, I know she’s right, and it feels amazing. “I don’t know, whatever we’re doing together, it’s been a few weeks, why?”

  “You don’t think these kind of text messages from him are a little clingy?”

  I don’t have to look at our message history. I know exactly what is in there, and confidently I answer, “Not at all.”

  Monica raises her hands in the air as if she is calling an imaginary truce with someone. “Fine. All I’m saying is he moves here because of you, and now he texts you every time he gets somewhere. I mean, look at these.” Retrieving the phone, she flips back through them, but before she can read them out loud I stop her.

  “I know what they say, and I don’t think he’s clingy,” I inform her.

  “Mac! I’m really happy you are getting back in the saddle and all, but you have to be smart about things.” She reads a message anyway. “’At the studio’ and then there’s ‘Back at my place, goodnight.’ Now today we get another one, ‘Made it to the studio.’ Christ, how do you keep yourself from replying ‘Why would I give a crap?’”