Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  When they have a lull in the conversation, I lean close to Clint and, keeping my voice low, I say, “That was really nice, what you said George. Jen means well, believe me, but she can be a bit…harsh.”

  “No problem. Just thought I’d throw the option on the table. Northern Minnesota is highly underrated. All that water and forest and land… It’s the perfect place to get married.” He reaches up and runs a hand over his jaw, fingers scraping against the blonde stubble. “Just my opinion though, babe.”

  “Marriage, weddings… Sounds like you’ve given some thought to the idea.”

  He squeezes my leg. “Only recently.”

  Hmm. “I’m nowhere near ready for that,” I say as lightly as I can. I’m not sure if I’m touched or freaked at his admission.

  “And neither,” he says with conviction, “am I. But…” He pauses, his lips turning up at the edges. “…maybe someday.”

  I study him and smile back. “Yeah, maybe someday.”

  But the very next second, I know that someday will never happen. At least not for us. Because at that moment, someone walks through the door, dressed in slacks and a light gray button up, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Broad shoulders fill up the entryway as he pauses, searching the crowd. When he sees our table, he grins, and it’s a smile I’ve missed so much that, seeing it now, makes my heart race. As he parts his way through the maze of tables and chairs, his eyes find mine, and I swear I see his breath catch.

  And me? I’ve forgotten how to breathe at all.

  Adair is back.

  “Did you know he was in town?”

  I’ve cornered Miles in the back of the bar, in the hallway leading to the restrooms, one hand on my hip and one finger pointing dangerously close to his chest.

  Okay, yes. I’m kind of acting like a crazy bitch right now. But Adair’s sudden appearance tonight has my heart dancing in my chest, like it’s doing the freaking macarena or something. And no, thank you very much, I’m not being dramatic.

  I’m caught off guard, is what I am.

  Aside from a mass email he sent last January letting everyone know that he’d arrived back in Scotland safely, I haven’t heard a thing from him since he left. And I’m fine with that. I am. He had a lot on his plate when he left right after New Year’s, and I can only imagine he’s been buried under the weight of it all since he’s been home. Plus, it’s not like I contacted him, either.

  So I can hardly be mad at the guy.

  And I’m not. Like I said, I’m just caught off guard.

  Plain and—

  breathe, Betsy, breathe

  —simple.

  Miles holds up his hands, though his expression remains relaxed. “Bets, I had no idea, I swear. I knew he was coming back to deal with some business stuff with the brewery. And I… Well, I guess I did mention that we had a game tonight. Joked that we could use his bat, to be honest…” He lets his voice trail off, and I smack his arm. “What? It’s my fault he knows where we hang out after games?”

  I cross my arms over my chest, pop my hip, and tap a nervous beat with my foot.

  An old friend who I haven’t seen is six months is back for a visit. So what? It’s no big deal. We say hello, catch up, share a few beers along with a few laughs… Piece of cake. It’s nothing to get worked up over.

  I bite my lip, roll my head, crack my neck.

  Miles dips his chin and studies me. “How’d you two leave things, anyway?”

  I shrug. “We’re friends. So, you know…friendly.”

  George is the only person who knows we slept together at least once. I never told her about the second time, the last time, on New Year’s Day. So as far as I know, Miles isn’t aware of either of our little trysts. Unless Adair told him and, well, I guess that would be Adair’s prerogative. Miles is, after all, his friend, too.

  He considers me for a moment. “Uh-huh,” is all he says.

  I hold up a hand, shake my head, and turn to walk away. “You know what? Never mind. I’m being crazy.”

  “Hey,” Miles says, reaching for me.

  I pause.

  “You’re not being crazy. You’re just in love.” Though I’m sure he doesn’t mean for it to come off this way, there’s pity in his voice. “And love…” He sighs, tips his head back, and looks at the ceiling, “Love can really mess with you head.”

  I frown. “What? But I’m not in love. Clint and I have only been… We’re taking things slow…And I don’t feel that way about him yet…”

  Miles raises a brow. “Betsy? Seriously? Come on. You know who I’m talking about. Stop pretending you don’t.”

  He caught me. I knew who he was talking about, and I started rambling to cover my own ass. “Fine,” I say, drawing the word out with a sigh. “But it doesn’t matter. Look, I don’t know how much you, um, actually know”—his smirk tells me that he just might know everything— “but things aren’t like that between us. Not anymore, if they ever really were. Our lives just went in different directions, that’s all. I live in Iowa, he lives in Scotland, for crying out loud. He’s the head of some fancy schmancy company and I’m a lowly little legal assistant who moonlights as a photographer and makes less in one year than he makes in a day.”

  “But so what? What does location or salary have to do with anything?” Miles isn’t being sarcastic. He’s asking the question like he truly wants to know. Like he really wants to hear my answer. The damn guy always makes me think too much when I talk to him.

  “Scotland is like, over three thousand miles from Iowa, for one.”

  Three thousand, eight hundred and forty-one, to be exact. I checked.

  Miles waves his hand in a come-on motion, forcing me to continue. It’s like he’s purposely, and so subtly, forcing me to lay out my thoughts, my beliefs so that I can work out their inconsistencies for myself.

  “And Adair is never going to live here again. Not when the headquarters for his company is half a continent and an entire ocean away.”

  Miles crosses his arms, props his elbow in one hand and rubs his chin with the other. “Let’s see… Skype, email, cell phones, airplanes.” He looks at me in feigned wonder. “It’s almost like we live in the twenty first century or something!”

  I give him a dirty look. “Nothing takes the place of being there, at the head of the table, on site.”

  Miles nods in agreement. “True, true,” he says, though I get the feeling he’s just humoring me. “Or…you could always move to him.”

  He stares at me, and I narrow my eyes back.

  “Like he’d even want me to.”

  Checkmate.

  “Why would he not want you to?”

  I throw my hands up. “Enough! This whole psychological thing you’re doing,” I wave my finger between us, “is stopping right now.”

  He sighs. “Fine, fine. But I’m just trying to make you see that you’re making things more difficult then they need to be. I know you love him,” he holds up a hand, stopping me from speaking. “I know you do, so just stop. I also know for a fact that he loves you. And I’m pretty sure you know that, too. The reasons the two of you are using to keep yourselves apart are totally made up. If you love each other, just be together. Why make it so complicated?”

  He makes sense. He does. Love is complicated, sure. But it can also be extraordinarily simple. It’s our actions, our knee-jerk responses, all the head games and overthinking that take us out of our hearts and pull us into our heads, the absolute last place we should be making any rash decisions on the matters of love.

  “Sometimes when you love someone, you have to let him go,” my head answers.

  “Sometimes,” Miles counters, and I’m pretty sure this is coming from his heart, “when you love someone, you have to fight for him.”

  I slip back into my seat next to Clint, flashing him a quick smile as I do. “Long line,” I say before bringing my glass to my lips and tipping it back. The beer is warm, but I hardly care as I gulp it down.

  At the oth
er end of the table, Adair is catching up with several of his old teammates, and though I can’t make out what he’s saying, his booming laugh makes it seem as if he’s sitting right next to me; the familiar rumble ricochets through my chest, causing me to break out in goosebumps. Even though he has to be at least four seats down and across, the whole right side of my body buzzes with his presence.

  The Clint of seven months ago wouldn’t have noticed the gooseflesh on my skin, the way the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end. But the new Clint, the one I’m dating right now and the one I should be swooning over, does notice. He slides his hand over my arm, his brow drawn with concern. “You cold? We can step outside if you need to warm up.”

  “No,” I assure him. “Seriously, I’m fine. Just caught a chill, that’s all.” I smile and eventually the sensation fades. Seconds pass into minutes and minutes pass into an hour, and still Adair hasn’t come over to say hello.

  Clint is to my left, so I focus on him and away from Adair as we discuss potential plans for the upcoming Fourth of July at the end of the week. The holiday doesn’t leave a sour taste in my mouth the way it used to, and these past few years I’ve succeeded in pushing the memory of that night aside and actually enjoying the day for what it’s worth. Clint’s family has a lakefront cabin in Minnesota where they traditionally celebrate, and he hints that he’d like to head up that way in a few days. He knows the Malones are throwing a party that I’d like to go to, however, so he leaves the option open so I don’t feel pressured into leaving my friends. Ultimately, the decision is mine, and while I’d like to get away and leave town for a few days—lounging on the beach and puttering around the lake on a kayak—I’m hesitant to commit. My thoughts keep drifting, drifting, while an invisible force keeps trying to turn my head, pulling my gaze away from Clint and focusing it instead down at the other end of the table.

  I find myself slipping from the conversation, wondering if Adair will still be here for the Fourth. If he’ll be attending Humphrey and Elise’s party. I haven’t spent a Fourth of July without him since he moved here. And if he doesn’t go to their place or instead flies home or I head up to Minnesota, this will be the first year in seven that we’ll have been apart. I’m suddenly nervous as to what this particular Fourth will bring because—and yes, it took me this long to figure it out—Adair is a big part of why I can stomach the holiday.

  Without knowing it, I’d turned him into my rock.

  But, I remind myself, I don’t need a rock anymore.

  I have to remind myself of this fact not even ten minutes later when Ian and George say good-bye and Adair slips into one of their vacated seats across the table. His smile is bright, jolly even, but his eyes are wary, guarded in a way they’ve never been…at least with me.

  He gives a short nod to Clint, who returns the gesture, and then finally looks my way. “Your hair,” he says by way of greeting. “It’s blonde.”

  “Not all of it,” I say, pulling my pony tail over my shoulder and fanning apart the strands, showing him the pink locks hiding underneath.

  Something moves across his face, an emotion I can’t read. It looks like indifference, though I can’t be sure.

  Not that it matters.

  He lifts his chin. “Well, you look…good.”

  I smile my thanks, and the three of us sit in awkward silence.

  “So,” he says, resting his elbows on the table and leaning forward, “how are things?”

  Clint’s hand finds its spot on my thigh as he shifts his weight closer to me, but his smile in response to Adair’s question is friendly enough. “Squeaked through with a win tonight, I’m sure you heard.”

  Adair breathes a sigh that sounds a lot like relief and laughs, his posture relaxing. Talking about the game is easy, superficial, and steers us away from deeper—possibly more uncomfortable—matters. The two show no signs of their former animosity towards one another and seem to fall into, if not easy, cordial conversation about the team, the weather, Adair’s flight and the chatty old woman he sat next to who spent the first half of the trip drinking too much wine and the last snoring on his shoulder.

  While the two men talk, I ignore my empty glass and instead drink Adair in. His face is leaner, high cheekbones and hard edges. He still has his beard, but it’s not as wild as it used to be. Now it’s shorter, kept neat and trim, little more than stubble dusting his square jaw. Very GQ, sure. But so different from the rugged, sexy small-town beer brewer he used to be. He’s all polished and class now, and while before I could at least dream of a future with him, now I can’t even fathom one.

  The frayed edges of our friendship, split when we slept together and worn even more ragged from our time apart, are now curling in on themselves, like dead skin that has to be abraded before it can be stitched back together again. But using a scalpel to scrape the edges of something you can’t see? Impossible. The spirit can’t be knit back together as easily, or as whole, as the flesh.

  “What brings you back this way?” Clint asks.

  Adair takes a drink, leans back in his chair. “Just some unfinished business.” He shrugs as his gaze falls on me. “But…turns out it was finished after all and I needn’t have bothered.”

  “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about it anymore,” Clint points out.

  “Aye, that I don’t.”

  Clint excuses himself to use the restroom, leaving Adair and I alone in a bar full of people. He presses his lips together, moves his drink around on the table, his long fingers pushing the glass in a figure eight pattern over and over again.

  “You’re going to wear a hole in the table,” I say, nodding at his drink.

  He looks up and smiles, a humble grin compared to the wide, beaming ones I used to provoke in him. “Just weird being back, is all.” He shrugs. “’Course it hasn’t been all that long—”

  “It’s been long,” I interrupt, then immediately bite my tongue.

  His eyes bore into mine, as if he’s searching for the same thing that I’ve been searching for since he walked in here tonight—our past.

  Us.

  I wonder if he senses the same loss that I do? In the morning, before he gets out of bed, does he try to linger in that in between state of wakefulness and dreams, where the past and the present and the future are all one and the same, allowing you to reside in whichever state you choose even if it’s only for a few seconds? Just last week I awoke with a memory on my lips that tasted as real as the kiss he’d pressed there all those months ago. And it wasn’t until the air conditioning kicked on and Clint shifted in bed next to me that I realized time and sleep had teamed up to play tricks with my mind. I spent the rest of the day flitting between the present and the past, seeing and hearing things that weren’t there, so lost in memories that, at one point, I reached for my phone to text Adair before remembering he was gone and that we hadn’t been in touch in months.

  I search his eyes, still as blue as the sky, familiar and yet so different, and see…nothing.

  It’s like he’s closed himself off.

  This is not my beautiful friend.

  “How’s your dad?” I say, breaking our staring contest.

  “He’s good. Doing better all the time.” His face softens. “Thanks for asking.”

  I nod. “No problem. Sorry I didn’t ask…you know…sooner.”

  He asks about Gabe, and I tell him about our latest adventure where we went hiking in the Loess Hills and I got us so lost that we had to be rescued by Miles, who has a much more attuned sense of direction than I do. Adair laughs when I tell him that the entire time I was waiting for help, Gabe and I were less than a football field away from my truck. He slaps his hand on the table, and the more he laughs, the more my smile stretches, and for a minute it’s just the two of us, cocooned in a bubble where time doesn’t exist and outside factors have no bearing on our hearts.

  We’re still in this bubble—which I’m starting to think I don’t ever want to leave—when Adair reaches for my phone.
Without asking, he keys in my password, explaining while he does that he’s updating his contact information. “I still have my old phone, but I don’t check it much. Unless I’m here, of course. This is the one I carry back home.” He adds a new email address as well, and when he hands me back my phone I realize I have nothing new to add to his.

  “Well, all of my stuff is still the same.” I press the button on the side of the phone and darken the screen. “Nothing new here. Same boring Betsy,” I joke.

  He cocks his head, his lips turning up ever so slightly. “You were never boring, doll. In fact, you were, or are the most…” His voice trails off, like he’s suddenly too shy or too polite to joke around with me.

  So I do the first thing I can think of…open my mouth, insert my foot, and say the most terribly inappropriate thing.

  “The most amazing lay you’ve ever had?” I say this in my best Scottish accent, which makes me sound like I’m from Jamaica.

  His eyes go wide, I blush, and oh-my-lord-what-the-hell-Betsy?

  “As a matter of fact,” he says, pinning me with a look that makes my heart race and my face heat even more, “you are the best lay I’ve ever had.”

  I blush, and he smirks, and there he is.

  And the invisible partition that’s been separating us since he sat down shatters.

  He leans in closer, edging the upper half of his body across the table, and I mimic the motion, the electricity from his body pulling mine toward his like a magnet. “I’d really like to talk to you while I’m here.” His voice is rough, low, and it pulls the goosebumps from earlier right back to the surface. I feel a movement flutter through my stomach, rise into my chest, and it’s all I can do to control my breathing. “Can we meet somewhere? Just the two of us? I just…” His voice grows even more gruff, and he stares at me with an intensity that, if I were standing, would make my knees buckle. “I just need—”

  But he stops abruptly, sliding his elbows back across the table and resuming his indifferent expression as Clint drops back into his seat. Clint’s arm slides behind my back, resting along the top of my chair, and if he saw our close proximity just moments before, he doesn’t let on. My back is ramrod straight, and I glance down at my thighs, plucking some threads from the frayed ends of my jean shorts. The Wright Auto Repair t-shirt clings to my skin, which has suddenly developed a fine layer of sweat. I feel itchy and tense and confused and guilty and excited all at once.