Page 50 of Lost Love on 6th Street

In the morning, please remember me.

Would be a leap. Would be . . . a little sappy. It’s how I feel though. I’m consumed by her, and I can only hope she’s at least thinking of me in the in between moments. I wouldn’t wish the way I feel on anyone. Still, though . . . to be thought of.

Eleanor’s got my head all in knots. I don’t know how to be the man I’ve always been. I want to be the right one for her. And her lips still burn on my cheek.

Instead, all I write is, “Home. Sleep well.” Then put my phone aside, praying that I’ll dream of her.

17

ELEANOR

“Did you know hyacinths represent regret?”

“You’re stalling, Eleanor.”

Of course, I’m stalling.

Standing outside a bar called the Broken Spoke in my cowboy boots, I feel like a fish in a fur coat. Every person who walks by seems to be giving me the once-over. It’s like they can see the northerner in me just with a single glance.

From the outside, Broken Spoke looks like an old-timey saloon, painted brick red. It’s clearly an establishment. The sign glows red, which might be an inviting beacon for some, but for me it is a harbinger of doom. Above the entrance, a wooden marquee displays upcoming events and live performances, its hand-painted lettering adding to the venue's nostalgic charm.

Each time the door swings open, I can hear the din of voices and music. I’m scared shitless as I prepare myself to go inside.

“I’m not lying,” I say. I looked it up the second I got home from hearing Diane’s song. It struck me all at once . . . there was no mention of hyacinths in the song. So, I searched the internet for the language of flowers. Lo and behold, hyacinths are the floral emblem of regret.

It fits. The lyrics, the keening tone of her voice.

Something about knowing the meaning, though, breaks my heart. What did Diane regret? There’s so much about life that can be regrettable. Especially in love. What did love look like to her?

Luke smiles. “I know you’re not lying.”

“Do we have to do this?” I ask. “I look ridiculous.

“Then, you’re gonna hate when I make you wear this.” Luke swings his arm out from behind him and produces an honest-to-goodness cowboy hat. It’s dark brown.

I glower up at him. “Luke . . .”

“Dress code!” he says defensively.

“First of all, you’re supposed to stop buying me things.”

“I never agreed to that.”

I roll my eyes. “Second, I’m gonna look like an idiot.”

“Oh, stop it, do I look like an idiot?”

Far from it, and I resent him making me look him over once again. Tonight, Luke has gone full cowboy. Plaid button-down, blue jeans, boots, and a cream-colored cowboy hat that bends up at the sides, almost like a seagull. He’s even wearing a belt with a fancy buckle. Who knew cowboys could look so expensive?

The image of him, a sturdy and lanky cowboy, is one I won’t be forgetting for a very long time. “Of course not. But you were like born for something like this.”

“Eleanor, Eleanor, Eleanor . . .” Luke drawls. Drawls. Like he’s been overcoming with some holy cowboy spirit. Maybe it’s the outfit or the milieu. He’s taking the role seriously. “Cowboys aren’t born, honey. They’re made.”

He may as well have just dripped a little honey on my tongue, calling me that. I swallow, trying to push down the way that made me feel.

Luke places the hat on my head, and I oblige him, not trying to duck away. “There ya go . . .” he mutters. “Let’s just . . .” He delicately arranges my curls so that the hat sits a bit better. I oblige him there too, because I always welcome when Luke interrupts the distance between us.

Luke lets out a whistle. “Look at you!”

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