by Laura Drake
Besides, what good is my dream if it depends on someone else to make it come true? Hand-me-down, that’s what it is. But I’ve realized that’s not all. My job is a hand-me-down, too. It was supposed to be my parents’. I love the diner and I’m proud of it, but would I have chosen that if I’d had a choice? I took a semester of classes at the community college, but when Nana’s filter broke to the point she was cussing out customers…It was silly, really. You don’t need a degree to run a country diner.
Come down to it, my whole life is hand-me-down. The town, the house I live in…even my motorcycle rebellion is unoriginal.
Pathetic.
I’ve been naive and trusting. It’s time to grow up. To toughen up, build up a layer of callus so I’m not so vulnerable. I need to see to my own needs, my own happiness, my own future. Even though I have no idea what that looks like, I know it’s there. I’m going to find my hand-me-down dreams: a man who loves me more than what he does, a family, with lots of kids in a big old house—no, that’s the old dream. Maybe I’ll sell the diner. Move to Denver. Get a degree. Become a biochemical engineer.
Okay, so I’d have to be good at science for that. But when the canvas is blank, you can paint any picture, right? I mean, two months ago, I couldn’t have imagined this reality, so…
I’m so sick of stewing in my own angst. It’s time to face it: My old comfort zone is gone—vaporized. I’ve got to take a step forward before I freeze to immobility, stuck in hell. Papaw always says, “Do something, even if it’s wrong.” I never really knew what he meant by it.
I get it now.
I hit the entrance ramp and merge onto the Friday night river flowing to the city. I told Nana I was staying with a friend. I didn’t tell Lorelei I was going at all. The whole point is to let off some steam where I’m not half of the C&A franchise. No heartbroken “poor Carly.” Just an anonymous chick in a generic country bar.
This weekend is a beginning. Driving to Albuquerque and staying in a hotel by myself. This is research: excavating to find who Carly really is. I’m going out. I’m going to have a good time. A thrill of potential shoots through me.
It’s full dark, sage-tinted wind blows in the window, and Garth’s on the radio. Something in me unwinds. It feels like freedom.
Forty minutes later, I’m cruising just off Central Avenue, looking for a dive country bar I’ve heard of…there! A fluorescent pink neon sign announces:
BUBBA’S FLAMINGO LOUNGE
HOME OF COWPUNK AND STEAMCHUNK
I have no idea what the heck kind of music that is, but Bubba’s is rumored to have a good atmosphere, and there’s a decent chain hotel right across the street. No way I’m driving home as drunk as I plan on getting. I steer Fartito into the hotel parking lot.
By the time I check in, change, do my hair and makeup, it’s time. My Friday-night-tight jeans earn me two horn blats and a wolf whistle as I cross the street, my inlaid cowgirl boots clicking. My parched ego soaks up the male interest.
Like I said, pathetic.
The bouncer looks me over and doesn’t card me. Yeah, fine, I’ve taken worse hits than that, dude. I step into the long dim room and my heart syncs to the beat of the long-haired, sleeve-tatted bass player, lifting my mood. If you’re into local dives, this is the place. The seats are worn, the floor is sticky, and the vibe is laid-back. The crowd is an eclectic mix of drugstore cowboys and pierced oddballs.
I flip the curls off my shoulders and head for a tiny unoccupied round table against the wall. I order a Bock and ask for a menu from a harried waitress, then sit back and listen. The band seems a cross between punk rock and country. An electric violin wails, and the lead singer sounds like he gargles with lye. I’m surprised to realize my foot is tapping and my lips are stretched in a smile.
This could be just what I’ve been needing.
The waitress brings my beer, but has forgotten the menu. She says she’ll be back. A wannabe cowboy stops by, tips his spanking new Stetson, and asks me to dance. I thank him and send him on his way. Once you’ve had a real cowboy…Besides, how would you dance to this? From what I can see, the kids on the dime-sized dance floor are just bouncing around like Red-Bull-charged Muppets on pogo sticks.
My radar pings. I glance around. Several guys are looking, but one at the bar is staring. Intense brooding blue eyes, slicked jet-black hair. In a black leather jacket, white T-shirt, worn jeans, and motorcycle boots, he doesn’t fit the clientele any more than I do. He tips his chin at me, drains his beer, stands, and strolls over.
“I think there’s a real country bar down the street.” He smiles down at me.
I’m done being categorized by arrogant men. “Yeah, and I imagine there’s a biker bar down there, too. Did you get lost?”
“My apologies, Miss. I usually have better manners.” His smile slips, leaving a sexy half-smile. “I’m Brett Cummings.” He does a quarter bow at the waist.
He’s cute, in a dangerous kind of way. He’s older—maybe early forties? But what rivets my attention is the sadness in his eyes. An echo of recognition vibrates through my chest. Loss touches loss. I am not looking for a guy. But that pain marks him as a member of my tribe. The ones who know that personal disaster can, and does happen.
He gives me time to look my fill. “If I promise not to underestimate you again, do you mind if I sit?”
“It depends. Did you ride here on a motorcycle, or is that a Halloween costume?”
“I’ve got a ’16 Softail Fat Boy sitting under the security lamps around back. Want to see it?”
No way I’m going “out back” with a guy I don’t know. I study his open face. If he’s lying, he’s good at it. I push out the chair across from me with my boot. “I have a 750 Honda Shadow.”
His eyebrows go up. “Beautiful, smart, and a biker?” He turns the chair backward, straddles it, and sits, forearms draped over the back. “Now I am intrigued, Miss…”
“Carly.”
“Can I buy you a beer, Miss Carly?” I nod, and he flags the waitress, who, for him, hustles over. “So, tell me how you came to be a rider.”
I tell him. It’s kind of nice. I’d never lie, but I’m also not caught in the amber of the Carly Beauchamp that Unforgiven knows. I’m free to be Carly 2.0.
By the time we finish the beer, he has me laughing at his motorcycle exploits. He’s the lead mechanic at the Harley dealer in town, and teaches motorcycle maintenance at a local community college.
He asks where I’m from, and I just say a podunk town. He’s originally from Kentucky, but moved here three years ago. He is polite, open, and interesting. After the next beer, I ask the question I really want the answer to. “So, Brett Cummings, where’d you get those sad eyes?” It seems Carly 2.0 says what’s on her mind.
He tsks and shakes his head. “That”—he spears me with a look—“is going to take something stronger than a beer. Join me?”
He orders Scotch, and I have a C&C.
“I moved out here three years ago to try to get my wife back.” He looks at the amber in the glass like it holds the future. “See, she left me and came out here to live with her sister. Said I was a ‘fun sponge.’ That’s newspeak for boring.” He looks up with a twisted smile. “Need I mention that my wife was seventeen years younger?”
“Ouch. I’m sorry.” I know from the “was” and the sad eyes, but I have to ask. “It didn’t work out?”
He snorts, and tosses back the Scotch. “She wasn’t living with her sister.”
I wince. “A guy?”
“Zachary.” His voice is all sing-song-sarcasm. “Cue the heavy sigh.”
“Why did you stay?” Poor guy.
“She and Zachary moved to Hawaii. And I like it here. The dry air, the interesting people…” His smile is tentative, but his brows look hopeful. “I find you very interesting, Carly…Hey, I don’t know your last name.”
“I’ve got to hit the ladies room.” I stand. My knees are pliable, and I grab the back of my chair. “Whoa. I ne
ed to eat. Grab the waitress, will you? I’ve been trying to get a menu for two hours.”
“Okay, but when you come back, it’s your turn to tell me your sad story.”
“Prepare to weep.” I wobble to the restroom, one doorway in a corridor that leads to the back door. I squint at it, then behind me. He can’t see me from where he’s sitting. I keep walking, and hit the security bar.
I get a whiff of the dumpster to the left of the door, and slap a hand over my nose. Sure enough, spotlighted under a sodium lamp sits a gleaming Harley. I let the door fall closed and take the few steps to the bathroom. He’s nice. And I could use a friend. But no more than that. I need to make that clear, and soon.
Back at the table, another C&C awaits. Brett is relaxed in his chair. His face lights when I sit.
“I need to clear shomthin—” I shake my head. I need to slow down. I used to pack it away, but I don’t drink much nowadays. “I need to let you know something, up front. You seem like a nice guy, Brett, but I just broke up with my one and only, and I’m not looking to date.”
He raises his hands. “I’m good with that. I’m not sure I am, either. Friends then?”
“Yeah, I could use that, for sure.” I look around. “Where’s that danged waitress? I’ve got to eat something, or I’m going to be a puddle under the table.”
He frowns. “Oh, I’m sorry. She said the kitchen closed a half hour ago.” He snaps his fingers. “Tell you what. You tell me your story, and then I’ll buy you dinner. There’s a good barbeque place, just down the sidewalk.”
That should be safe. It’s not like it’s a date or anything. “Okay, but I’m buying my own.”
“Deal. So? Tell me.” He tosses back the Scotch, and signals for another.
“Well, he’s a rough-stock rider and the love of my life.” I sip my drink. “I thought he was everything, but it turns out, I was dreaming…”
* * *
Carly
Light. Wha…? Through a pounding undertow of confusion, I claw myself to the shore of consciousness and peel my eyelids open. Lasers pierce my skull and I hear myself moan.
Where am I?
Through slitted lids, the generic room slowly comes into focus. Hotel room. My curling iron and brushes crowd the business desk. My room. I hit the button on my phone. At eight a.m.
Last night…Sad blue eyes, and a sadder story. Dread swivels my head to my right. Empty. Thank God. But the pillow is dented, the covers disheveled.
No. This can’t be.
My mouth tastes like that dumpster last night smelled. I run my tongue over furry teeth. Did I drink that much?
Something is tugging at me. Something important. I roll to one elbow and study the bed beside me. I pull a single black hair from the pillowcase. Surely, I didn’t.
I wouldn’t.
I shift and sit up. Something liquid slips from me. Something I know isn’t my period, because I had it three weeks ago.
I did.
Oh, my sweet Jesus…Austin. I cheated on Austin! No, we’re broken up. That fact brings no solace. I feel as cheap as a whore’s perfume.
Austin. We were over, but he was still my only…I’ll never be able to say that again. My heart squeezes in an acid bath of fresh grief. I’ll think about that later.
Where is this…Brett? Maybe he went to get us coffee. I pull the covers up to my neck.
When I come to again, I check my phone. Ten.
Then I remember, in vivid technicolor detail. Making out, leaning against the hotel room door. Laughing, almost falling, when he opened it. Then the video speeds up; flashes of tossed underwear, an unfamiliar black furred chest, those piercing blue eyes below me, watching as I came…
Oh sweet Jesus, what have I done?
Horror blooms in my brain and spreads, shooting down nerve endings, waking my body with a live-wire crack of lightning. I try to hop out of bed but only manage to fall out of it. Pulling myself up by the bedsheets to kneel, then gain my feet. The floor rolls beneath me, and I lurch to the bathroom to heave everything, from my toes up, into the toilet.
One thing sure, Brett is in the wind. What kind of guy takes advantage of a clearly incapacitated woman? And then bails?
But I can’t just blame him. I’m responsible for me.
I came here to discover who the new Carly is. Apparently, she’s a slut. Another factoid hits my solar plexus. He didn’t use a condom. Probably assumed I was on the pill, like every other single woman on the planet. But the pill made me sick, and…How am I going to live with this?
I can’t think. I won’t think. Not ’til I can handle it. I rest my hot cheek on the cool tile floor to rest.
I want to go home. But I can’t go home like this, because look what I’ve done—and oh my God, what do I do now?
* * *
Two hours later, after buying a morning-after pill at a drugstore and downing it, I’m sitting in a Denny’s a few streets from the hotel, inhaling coffee and choking down dry toast. Caffeine is helping resurrect my brain. I had to get as far away from that tainted hotel room as possible.
I guess I should be glad he didn’t steal my credit card.
I’m calling that dickhead and giving him a piece of my mind. I pull out my phone, ignore the flashing voice-mail icon, and hit the internet. I find the Harley dealer, and while the phone rings, practice a rant in my head.
“Harley Davidson of Albuquerque.”
“I need to talk to Brett Cummings.”
“Who?”
“Brett. Your lead mechanic.”
“I’m sorry, Miss. We don’t have anyone by that name working here.”
“Tall, black hair, blue eyes?”
“Our lead mechanic is Hispanic. And I’m sorry, but that doesn’t sound like anyone who works here.”
“Seriously?” My stomach begins an agitation cycle. “Is there another Harley dealer in Albuquerque?”
“No’m. Just us. Do you have a bike that needs work? I can—”
I click End. My thumbs fly, looking up community colleges in town. Fifteen minutes later, I give up. None of them have a Brett Cummings on staff.
The enormity of this smacks me in the face, reverberating through my body like walking into a door. Brett Cummings doesn’t exist. He lied. Probably about everything. I pay the bill and climb into the truck, then just sit staring out the windshield. I can’t go home. Not like this. I’m Nana’s good girl. The town’s good girl. The enormity of my error hits.
What if he had a disease? I scrub my hands over the skin of my arms, as if I can rub off the experience. Oh, I’m screwed, in more ways than I realized. This is not something you mess with. I’m going to have to see a doctor. I make a mental note to look up how soon STDs can be detected, and the number of an out-of-town physician.
A wave of revulsion swamps me. I want to douche with boiling alcohol.
I drop my forehead on my hands, fisted on the wheel. If a friend told me they’d done something like this, I’d chew them up one side and down the other. What was I thinking?
I wasn’t.
Nana has always told me not to trip over something behind me. That’s exactly what I did.
Nana. Suddenly I miss her with the fierceness of a lost toddler.
I’m going home. I’m not telling anyone about this. It was my stupidity and I’ll live with it. I’ll bury it deep, pretend this day never happened, and maybe someday, it will fade like a bad dream.
And I’ll never, ever, go drinking alone again. Ever.
Which reminds me of another Nana-ism: Forget the mistake. Remember the lesson.
I take the backroads home, trying to convince myself I can do this; I can lie to my grandparents, to my friends, to the town and no one will know. Except I’ve never had much to lie about, so I stop by the side of the road and practice in the rearview mirror. After throwing up my dry toast breakfast and about a gallon of coffee, I start up again.
I roll back into Unforgiven, raising a shaky “howdy” finger off the wheel to cars t
hat pass.
That old Robert Frost poem we had to read in high school floats through my mind. “Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” I have no doubt that Nana and Papaw will take me in. But they don’t know what a fool I am.
But I put myself in that bar. Alone. Lorelei warned me. I knew better. And running from one thing doesn’t absolve you from running into another.
Thank God Austin is on the road. I may be able to fool Nana and Papaw, but Austin knows me like I know myself. He’d look at me and know.
Chapter 5
Carly
Four weeks later, sitting in an almost-empty waiting room in a clinic on the other side of Albuquerque, I’m inhaling cheap disinfectant and the smell of my own worry. I almost turned the truck around three times on the way here. But STDs are no joke, and I sure wouldn’t put it past that loser to have given me a lovely parting gift. But I don’t have time or energy to hate someone I’ll never see again. I need all my attention focused on getting past what happened.
“Ms. Davis?”
Realizing the doctor in the doorway is talking to me, I jerk to my feet. They asked me for a name when I checked in. I couldn’t use mine. Austin’s just popped out of my mouth. Hearing the name that was supposed to be mine, in this place, sounds like…blasphemy.
Face flaming, I follow her as she ushers me into a tiny exam room. She begins by asking me questions, and I give her the multiple-partners/can’t-be-too-cautious/online dating-sucks story I concocted on the drive here. I guess I’m not the only dumb bunny on the planet, because she asks me to strip in a bored voice as she hands me a rough paper gown.
I lie in the stirrups, jumping at every touch.
Afterward, she takes two tubes of blood, snaps off her gloves, tells me to get dressed, and hands me a plastic cup to pee into. She points me to the bathroom next door.
Back in the exam room I wait, feeling like packaged meat on an assembly line. I fidget. And worry. Five minutes. Ten.