Page 8 of They Are Mine

It’s a small town, after all.

And tonight?

Tonight, I’m going inside.

I planned for this.

Picked the perfect dress, soft, romantic, delicate. A pale pink slip dress, thin straps, satin that hugs just enough without being obvious. My hair curls just right, my perfume is light and floral, something you only notice when you’re close.

I wear pearls.

Noah likes soft things.

I know this because I’ve watched the way he handles his guitar, careful and reverent, like music is something sacred to him. The way he tugs at the hem of his sweaters absentmindedly, the way he smiled at me the day we met.

And tonight, he’s going to see me again.

The bar is dimly lit, warm, full but not crowded. The kind of place where people nurse their drinks and pretend to care about poetry. I arrive just early enough to find a seat toward the back, not hidden, but not obvious. Not yet.

Because I want to watch him first.

And then I see him.

Noah.

He’s sitting at the bar, fingers drumming against the counter, his guitar case leaning against the stool beside him. Waiting for his turn.

I open the Notes app on my phone.

Noah Carter. (He told the host his name when signing up.)

Drinks Coke, not beer.

Doesn’t smoke. (A man walked past offering a cigarette. Noah shook his head, barely looked up.)

I love learning about him.

I love that no one else knows him like I do.

I tuck my phone away, scanning the room.

Then I see her.

At a corner table. A cocktail in front of her. Legs crossed, posture relaxed, head tilted just slightly.

She’s watching him.

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