Be Brave With Me

by J. B. Havens

  As I walk into the diner the smell of bacon, coffee, and pancakes hits me full in the face. My mouth waters and I realize I’m much hungrier than I originally thought. I try to ignore the feel of Drew walking in behind me, and how it might look to the people inside.

  Wanting to avoid the intimacy of a booth, I choose a seat at the counter instead, knowing Drew is going to sit next to me. He nods and waves to a few people before claiming his seat, a move that earns him a few strange looks.

  I don’t want to like him, I really, really don’t, but it seems I don’t have much choice in the matter. He’s been incredibly kind in the wake of my rudeness. I’m a bitch; I know it, but it doesn’t seem to faze him at all.

  “Coffee?” The waitress’s voice snaps me out of my thoughts.

  “Please, yes. And a menu?” I look at her, noting her name tag says Ann.

  She reaches under the bar and hands me a menu while filling my coffee cup with her other hand. “Drew? Your usual?” She asks, not looking up from what she’s doing.

  “Yeah, thanks, Ann.”

  I want to ask him what his usual is or what he might recommend here, but I keep my mouth closed. I’ve already spoken more words to him in the past twenty minutes than I have to anyone in the last week. I add cream and sugar to my coffee before lifting the cup to my lips.

  “I knew you had manners in there somewhere,” Drew remarks, drawing my attention back to him.

  “I never said I didn’t have them.” I take another sip of my coffee. It’s some of the best I can ever remember having. I sigh in appreciation of the bold flavor.

  “I believe your words were, ‘My mother tried, it didn’t stick.’”

  “I guess I did say that. So either I lied then, or I’m lying now. You pick.” I scan the menu, and my eyes immediately land on the build your own breakfast option. Decision made, I set it aside and go back to drinking my coffee and trying to ignore the irritating man sitting next to me.

  “What’s your story?” His hand nudges mine as he reaches for the sugar dispenser.

  “A long one that I intend to keep to myself.” I drain the coffee and place my cup forward in a silent request for a refill. Before Drew has a chance to question me further, Ann returns, her notepad and pen at the ready.

  “What can I get you, miss?”

  “I’ll have the French toast, a side of bacon, and some more coffee please.” Ann nods as she writes and reaches behind her for the pot, refilling my cup.

  “That all?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  I glance over at Drew, who looks like he wants to ask me something further, but smartly changes his mind. He drinks his coffee and remains quiet until a few minutes later when Ann returns with a plate in each hand.

  I stare at the food on his plate, surprised to see shrimp in a breakfast dish. He sees the question on my face, and answers with a chuckle.

  “Shrimp and grits, a true southern boy breakfast. It’s good for you; you should try it.”

  I wrinkle my nose in distaste. “No, thanks, I don’t eat seafood. Ever. At any time of day.”

  “You’re in the South and you don’t eat seafood? That’s . . . it’s almost sacrilegious!” Drew’s shock and outrage are almost comical.

  “I guess I’m a Yankee at heart.”

  “Humph,” he grouses and dives into his breakfast.

  I take the opportunity to drown my French toast in syrup, just the way I like it. Sticky and sweet. I put some on the bacon for good measure.

  “You want some French toast with your syrup?” Drew asks me around a mouthful of grits.

  “Sure. How else am I supposed to eat my syrup? I don’t drink it out of the container like a heathen.” I smile, despite myself. The feeling is strange. When was the last time I actually smiled? I frown when I realize the answer.

  Setting aside my fork, my appetite suddenly gone, I turn my attention back to my coffee and do my best to ignore Drew. I can feel his stare, but I refuse to return it, instead I keep both hands wrapped securely around my cup and my eyes on the mirrored wall in front of me. I don’t look at my own reflection, instead I let my gaze wander around the nearly full diner. Couples, old and young, are everywhere. A few old timers in denim overalls sit further down the counter, drinking coffee.

  No one seems to pay me or Drew much attention. Or at least that’s what I thought at first. There are glances, a few titters behind hands, and some outright appraisals. Is the fact that Drew is in a diner with a woman that unusual? Is he married? Gay? A recluse? What the hell do I even care? Mentally shaking my head to clear the strange thoughts, I look over at Drew who is so focused on the plate of food in front of him, the rest of the world doesn’t seem to exist.

  I slide a ten dollar bill next to my plate, then address him. “Drew. I’ll wait outside.”

  “Wait, what? You didn’t finish eating.” He frowns at the money, looking up at me in question. “I’m goin’ to take care of this.” He waves his hands at ours plates and cups.

  “I pay my own way and I’m finished; I’ll wait for you in the truck.” I slip away as quickly as possible, too aware of the stares following me out. I admit I’m probably overreacting, but at the moment, I don’t give a damn. Things were real in there for a second. People were not just looking at me, they were seeing me and that’s the last thing I want.

  Fortunately, the truck is unlocked. I climb in, the heat inside oppressive. Luckily, this heap is old enough it has crank windows. I roll mine down and reach across to roll down his. A slight breeze comes through, ruffling the hair on the nape of my neck. The warm sun feels good on my face and I relax, letting the tension drain out of my muscles. I expected the inside of a man’s truck to stink like a sweaty man, but surprisingly it doesn’t. It smells like pine and a hint of sandalwood, his soap no doubt. He doesn’t wear any cologne, as far as I can tell.

  I slouch down further, resting my head against the door frame, enjoying the cool breeze blowing across my cheeks. Before long, my exhaustion catches up with me and my eyes keep closing. After the third blink and jerk awake, I give up and let myself drift off.

  Chapter 7

  Drew

  Drew wiped his mouth one last time and left the napkin on the counter along with another ten bucks. Ann was getting good tips from them today. He was confused at Meg’s reaction, there was definitely something up with her. Did he want to go there? Even if he did, he wasn’t sure she’d let him. She was closed up tighter than a nun’s snatch.

  Waving absentmindedly at the few faces he recognized, he left the diner and made his way over to the truck. What he found there surprised him. Meg’s head was resting against the door frame, windows down, and she was fast asleep. All the harshness had left her in slumber. The sun made her black hair gleam and turned her cheeks a soft pink. She was so stunning it was like a punch to his chest. The last time he’d been so struck by a female’s beauty was that fateful night, a lifetime ago. Scowling at the memory, he walked around and climbed into the truck as quietly as possible. He shut his door and put the key in the ignition, but kept his hand there, hesitating. Glancing over at the sleeping woman, he was loathe to wake her. The dark circles under her eyes showed her exhaustion. Based on the screams he’d woken to last night, he knew she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in quite some time.

  As if she felt his eyes on her, she slowly opened hers. The sunlight reflecting in her irises reminded him of the green you see in the forest after it rains. Deep and mysterious, lovely, and just a little bit scary. He swallowed thickly.

  “What are you staring at?” she croaked, her voice still thick with sleep. She probably had only been out for ten minutes or so, but apparently it was a good ten minutes.

  “You,” he said simply and started the truck, ignoring her frown. He smirked to himself and headed back to the motel.

  Chapter 8

  Meg

  I wake with a jerk, my heart hammering in my chest. I wipe the drool off my face and roll over with a groan. Looking a
t the clock, I realize I’ve slept through lunch; it’s going on six o’clock in the evening. I need to get out of here.

  After Drew dropped me off last night, I came back to my room and collapsed on the bed. Sprawled on my stomach, I was asleep before I had a chance to take my shoes off. Despite the many hours in this room, I was still exhausted, and following a quick breakfast this morning, I'd crawled back under the covers and succumbed to slumber once more.

  I get up, change my clothes, and brush my teeth. Looking at myself in the mirror, I pull the band out of my hair, letting the long strands fall around my shoulders. I run a brush through it; I like the way the light hits it. I’ve always loved my hair. So had he. I remember how he’d run his hands through it, grabbing fistfuls, and pulling me in for a kiss. I almost cut it after, but I couldn’t bear to. He’d be so disappointed if I did.

  Plugging in the hair dryer, I bend over, flipping my hair down over my head and use the brush to add body. I straighten up and survey the results. Shiny waves fall all around my shoulders, nearly to my waist. Grabbing my makeup bag, I apply a thin layer of foundation, eyeliner, and shadow. Tapping the fat brush against the side of the container, I dust a small amount of blush across the apples of my cheeks. I don’t usually wear much makeup, and when I do, I prefer a small amount. Just to enhance what’s already there. I don’t get into all that contouring nonsense.

  I check over my outfit—snug, bootcut blue jeans and a simple, white cami under a hunter green shirt that drapes open along my lower back. I pair it with black ankle boots that have a low, flat heel. Not too bad. I don’t allow myself even a moment to question what I’m doing or why. I haven’t bothered with my appearance in a long time, so it feels good to look like myself again. Like slipping back into a familiar skin, that even after months in the closet still fits perfectly.

  When Drew drove me home this morning, I’d seen a bar not far from here, the Jailhouse. I don’t mind walking; the cool night air feels good on my warm cheeks.

  My blood is hot, thumping through my veins in a steady rhythm. As questions pop into my mind, I push them aside. I feel like I’ve woken up, emerging from a long hibernation, scarred, but new and whole. Whatever has caused this change, I don’t question. The blinders are off, I’m seeing clearly now. I’m alive.

  I arrive at the bar, the thump thump of music audible from outside. I take a deep breath and pull the door open.

  The Jailhouse has a theme and the name speaks for itself. The waitresses flit from table to table in black and white, striped crop tops and black shorts. The bouncers have guard uniforms on and there are iron bar motifs everywhere. Elvis tunes play loudly in the background. Elvis was born in Tupelo, Mississippi, so the owners ran with the idea.

  Working my way through the crowd, I find an empty seat at the bar. Sitting on the backless stool, I try to keep my nerves under control. It’s been years since I’ve been in a bar, even longer since I’ve been in a bar alone. Single. What the fuck am I doing here? I stand, intending to leave, when a hand on my arm stops me.

  “Meg?” I look up and into blue eyes, the color of the sea. Drew.

  “Oh! Hey.” I run a hand through my hair nervously, watching him follow the movement.

  “You all right?” He leans closer to me, to be heard over the music. A whiff of his soap tickles my nose—sandalwood and pine.

  “Uh, no. Actually. I’m no good at . . . this.” I wave a hand at the bar around me. The laughter and music surround us.

  “Me neither. I don’t come here much. Here, let me get you a drink.” I look down at my arm, realizing he still has his hand on me, guiding me back to my seat, as he takes the one to my right.

  I look over at him, at a loss for words. He’d attempted to tame his hair, but it was already falling onto his forehead. He’d trimmed his beard too. Seems I wasn’t the only one who’d taken an extra few minutes with their appearance tonight. Guilt hits me like a brick. What the hell am I doing? I shouldn’t be appreciating his looks this much. It feels so . . . disloyal.

  “Meg?” Drew’s voice drags me back to the present. I realize he asked me something and I hadn’t heard him. The bartender is standing in front of us, her hands braced on the gleaming wood, waiting.

  “Oh, yeah, duh. Sorry. Jack and coke, a big one.”

  Drew laughs and asks for a beer for himself. The bartender raises an eyebrow, seemingly surprised by his request. I figured him for a liquor drinker myself, but it’s not a total shocker that I’m wrong. Drew unsettles me.

  “Thanks, Aimee.” Drew says when our drinks arrive. He hands me my tall glass and takes his own beer.

  “Do you know everyone’s name?” I ask, thinking back to the waitress at breakfast.

  “Sure. It’s a small town and I’ve lived here all my life.” He shrugs and takes a drink of his beer. I watch the long column of his throat as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. His skin is tan and smooth and looks so inviting.

  Shaking the thoughts from my mind, I take a long draw of my own drink. The liquor burns and the bubbles from the Coke tickle my throat. As the whiskey warms my stomach, I realize I haven’t eaten anything today beyond the few bites at breakfast.

  “Do they serve food here?” I look at Drew, who’s watching the crowd around us.

  “Sure. You want somethin’?”

  “No, I was just asking out of curiosity.”

  Drew chuckles and points to the wall behind the bar, where a neon sign displays the night’s specials. “Are you always this sarcastic?”

  I rub my fingers along the condensation on my glass and drink some more before answering him. “Usually.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?” I allow myself a small smile, just one corner of my mouth lifting up.

  “Fair point. Though some say sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.”

  “Do you really think I give two shits what people think or say?”

  Drew’s laugh is deep and rich. I smile back, unable to stop myself. His smile is infectious. Forcing myself to look away, I drain my glass and set it forward on the bar. Drew copies my actions.

  “Another drink?” He asks as Aimee comes over to take our empties.

  “Sure.” I shrug, the booze already loosening my tongue and relaxing me. “I need food though.”

  “What would you like?” the bartender asks.

  “The burger and fries. Also, two lemon drops and another jack and Coke. Grey Goose for the shots if you have it.” I pull out my debit card and lay it on the bar. “You okay with that, Drew, or do you want something else?”

  “Shots, huh?” He pauses for a moment, and Aimee gives him a look I can’t read. “That’s fine, but I’m gettin’ the next one.”

  I roll my eyes in response and watch Aimee as she pours two shots of the top shelf vodka and dusts lemon slices with sugar.

  Clinking my glass against Drew’s, I keep my eyes on him as he downs the shot and shoves the lemon into his mouth. I do my own, slamming the glass down on the bar and sucking on my lemon slice. I breathe deep, enjoying the smooth burn of the vodka and the sour-sweetness of the lemon.

  “You do that like you’ve had lotsa practice,” he comments, tossing his lemon rind into his empty shot glass.

  “A time or two.” I I like the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles and I wink. “I could say the same for you.”

  “Maybe.” He chuckles, setting his beer down. “I’ll be right back.” He stands and winds his way through the tables, back to the restrooms. I watch him the whole way, noticing his slight limp, and at the same time appreciating the fit of his jeans.

  As soon as he’s out of sight, I wave Aimee over to me. “What can I do for you?”

  “Put his tab on my card.”

  “He won’t like that,” Aimee warns.

  “Maybe not, but please do it anyway. I’ll deal with Drew.”

  She shrugs and taps on the screen of the register, giving me a nod to let me know she moved it over to my tab.

  Drew
returns, and I hide my smile by taking another drink of my Jack and Coke. He looks at me in question, but I’m saved by the arrival of my food. I dig in, suddenly ravenous. The burger is delicious, the juices running across my hands. Forgoing the napkins next to my plate, I lick my fingers one at a time. Glancing at Drew, I see he’s watching me intently. A different sort of light is in his eyes, the type of look a man gives a woman when he’s thinking dirty thoughts about her. Returning to my food, I look away.

  “You shouldn’t look at me like that,” I say to him before taking another bite.

  “How am I looking at you?” Drew leans closer, his thigh brushing against mine and his shoulder resting lightly against me. He’s close, much too close.

  “Like you’re wondering what I taste like,” I boldly state, meeting his eyes.

  “And if I am?” The intimacy of his stare and words are almost too much for me to handle. I give his question careful consideration.

  “Honestly?”

  He nods.

  “I don’t really know. It’s been . . . a really long time, since I’ve, ya know, even thought about that sort of thing.”

  He reaches out his hand, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear. The simple gesture feels like so much more.

  “It’s been a long time for me too. A really long time, actually.” He shrugs. “I shouldn’t even like you. You’re mean as all hell. Not to mention rude. Not at all the sort of girl, sorry, woman, I’d normally find myself interested in.”

  Ignoring the rude comment, I reply, “You’re interested?” Shocked, I didn’t know what to do with what he just said. “I need another shot.”

  Laughing loudly, Drew orders whiskey this time. Straight up. Clinking glasses again, I keep my eyes on his as I throw back the shot, the burn in my throat vicious, but I relish the pain. I’m in way over my head. My emotions are raw, and I’m uncertain of everything in my life right now, but I know one thing for sure. The liquor will do its job. It will numb my broken heart and let me forget, even for just a little while, all the things I’ve lost.