Once again I feel a kinship to Shannon and every other woman who has ever had to struggle with her weight. It’s a constant battle and there are days when I swear I can gain weight simply by thinking of eating something, or sitting in the same room with it. When I do cave in and gain a few pounds, at least I can hide the results beneath my larger sized, loose-fitting, fat clothes. But Shannon didn’t have that luxury if she wanted to maintain her modeling career.
Also in the medicine cabinet is a supply of birth control pills, which reminds me of what Erik had said in his letters to Shannon about wanting children. Was Shannon’s obsession with her figure the reason she held out? Was she afraid of ruining her modeling career if she got pregnant? Or was it something else altogether?
Something is nagging at me, a little itch in the back of my mind, but I can’t seem to reach and scratch it. I move back to the bedroom and stand there a moment, trying to figure out what it is that’s bothering me. But it remains elusive so I head back to Hurley.
“Any chance you’re up for a drink?” I ask him.
“Are you asking me out on a date?”
“No, I just want to check out Luke Nelson’s alibi at the Somewhere Bar.”
“I already did. Several people verified that he was there.”
“Oh.”
There’s an awkward moment of silence before Hurley adds, “We can go anyway if you want, and have a nightcap. I don’t know if you found what you want here, but I’m not seeing anything too exciting.”
I put my hand on my hip and give him an injured look.
“Evidence-wise, I mean,” he adds, his eyes twinkling.
“Good, because I’m not that kind of girl.” One of his eyebrows arches and he gives me a smoldering look that makes my stomach go all squishy. “Although I suppose I could be,” I add as I head out the door.
Chapter 25
All of the bars in town have their frequent fliers: the pasty-faced, doughy-looking, smoky-smelling, weekday regulars, folks who look like they live in the place. They’re the ones who have a “usual” seat, are greeted by the bar staff by name, and are served their drink of choice without having to ask for it. But on any given night there will also be some outsiders in the bars, the occasional drop-ins, the celebrators, the lonely, the bored, the out-of-towners, and others like us, who are simply looking for a brief break in the day.
Even if you’re not a regular at one of the bars, Sorenson is a small enough town that a lot of the patrons know each other simply because they are neighbors. Both Hurley and I know the bartender on duty tonight, a redheaded, fifty-something woman named Cara. She greets us both by name and as we settle in at the bar, I order a Miller Lite on tap while Hurley opts for a bottle of Sam Adams. We also know several of the patrons, as well, though different ones for different reasons. In my case it’s because they are people I’ve grown up with or cared for when I worked at the hospital. Hurley, being relatively new in town, knows most of his acquaintances “professionally.”
When Cara brings our drinks, we exchange some polite chitchat with her. But when there’s a brief lag in the conversation, I ask her if she knows Luke Nelson. I see Hurley shoot me a sidelong glance but pointedly ignore him.
“I do,” Cara says. “He comes in from time to time. He isn’t a regular or anything but he probably drops in a couple of times every month. I think he fancies himself some kind of Frasier Crane or something. Boring shit, if you ask me,” she concludes with a roll of her eyes.
Hurley snorts a laugh and Cara looks pleased that her commentary has amused him. She leans on the bar, shifts her attention to him, and asks, “So, are you seeing anyone these days, Detective?”
Hurley practically spews the beer he just sipped and turns cherry red.
“ ’Cause I’m free tomorrow night and have tickets to the opera in Madison,” Cara continues with an exaggerated wink.
Realizing she is merely yanking his chain, Hurley laughs, swallows his beer, and says, “Good one.”
“Hey, a girl can dream, right?” Cara says.
Indeed.
Since neither of us has eaten dinner, we order a couple of sandwiches and then I challenge Hurley to a game of darts baseball. Despite my competitive nature, I spend the entire time not caring if I ever hit the board, as long as I can watch Hurley walk up to retrieve the darts. In fact, I quickly realize the view is greatly enhanced when I miss altogether and he has to bend over to pick up my darts from the floor. He beats me handily and, by the time we decide to call it quits, I’m embracing my loser status and struggling to rein in my hormones.
We order two more beers and settle back in at the bar. I can feel the sexual tension growing tauter by the moment and we spend a few moments sitting side by side sharing another awkward silence. There is a foot of space between us but I can feel the heat radiating off his body and my mind is imagining how it would feel to nestle my head against the broad expanse of his chest and the soft flannel of his shirt. It’s Hurley who finally breaks the silence with a husky clearing of his throat before he speaks.
“So, Winston,” he says. “Can I ask where things are with you and David?”
“Nowhere,” I tell him. “He’s made some overtures about trying again but I’ve made it pretty clear I’m done with him. I can’t forgive him for cheating on me with Karen.”
“People screw up sometimes,” he says with a shrug. “You must have some residual feelings for the guy. Are you sure you want to throw away your marriage because David made this one mistake?”
I give him a disbelieving look. “It’s a pretty big mistake, don’t you think?” I say, angry that he’s defending the slime bag. “I mean, it’s not like he didn’t pick up his clothes, or came home late for dinner, or tracked mud in on the carpet. He risked everything we had, everything we’d built, everything I believed in. He showed a total disregard not only for my feelings, but for my life. So yeah,” I conclude, my ire hitting a crescendo. “I’m sure.”
Hurley has hit a nerve and the feelings I’ve been working so hard to suppress over the past few months come boiling to the surface. I feel the sting of tears in my eyes and swipe irritably at them, turning away from him and staring at the dwindling head on my beer.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice soft. “I just . . . I wanted . . . I wondered . . . shit.”
He lowers his head and starts scraping the label off his bottle with his thumbnail. The awkward silence returns, hovering between us like a noxious gas. After several, agonizingly long minutes of it, he pushes his bottle away and says, “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”
Not trusting my emotional state enough to speak, I simply nod and climb down from my bar stool. I follow him to the car and when he gallantly opens my door for me, I nearly burst into tears. The drive is blessedly short but uncomfortably quiet, and as he turns into my driveway I feel the need to say something to try to salvage the moment, and my future with him.
“It’s not easy for me,” I manage, twiddling my thumbs and staring at my lap.
“I’m sure it’s not,” he says, sounding weary.
“But I’m very certain where I stand on the matter. David and I are through. I know I haven’t taken the steps to make it official yet, but that doesn’t mean I’m having second thoughts. I promise you, that part of my life is over. Done with. Finis.”