Page 90 of If Not for My Baby
“It’s fine,” Jen says. “Grayson, I get your disappointment.But Tom’s just a more enticing subject for the publication. You have to understand that.”
“What I fucking understand is—”
“Let’s talk about this in private.”
“That wasmyarticle. My shot to become anenticing subjectof my own. I’ve been working—”
Jen’s nostrils flare. “Isaid, in private.”
Grayson doesn’t say more. The entire band avoids any meaningful eye contact. Rhythmic music thumps in the bus speakers as he pushes past Jen and out into the night. I exhale a sigh of relief as the rest of the group moves for the doors as well.
“God, he’s obnoxious,” I say to Tom, who’s kicking off his boots in the front lounge, leather notepad and pen already in hand.
Tom shakes his head. “I’ll be glad to be rid of him in a week.”
A week. That’s all we have left. “Do you want to join us?”
“Nah. You go on,” he says with warmth. “Your next Christie novel and I’ll be waitin’ here for you.”
But this is one of our last nights together. And he said himself he’s trying to connect more with the band…I cut my eyes to the bar doors outside and the soft twang of banjos and harmonicas whistling out. “Pete says this is the perfect bar for you. Nothing fancy about it, no paparazzi, just good people and good music.”
Before he can open his mouth to say no, I add, “For me?”
It’s lonesome going out without him. Molly gets hit on by half the club until Pete saunters over and sticks his tonguedown her throat. Indy makes a new friend and ends up giving them advice on their failing marriage in the corner while Lionel tries to hand out his business card to strangers. Grayson—who I’m more than happy to avoid—finds his next willing sex partner, and while Conor and Wren always offer to include me in pool or darts or whatever they’re playing, we all know how bad my hand-eye coordination is.
What was once novel has become routine and I blame a certain ladder-length Irishman for that. Everything is just less fun without his lyrical commentary and soulful wit nearby.
Tom studies me, and with a plaintive groan, yanks his leather boots back on. I grin my delight and bop from foot to foot until he follows me off the bus with a begrudging grin.
“You got Halloran to come out with us?” Lionel asks loudly into my ear once we’re inside. He’s clearly a few shots deep already. “You must be really good at having sex.”
Molly makes a face. “Ew, Lionel. Nobody wants to hear you saysex.”
Lionel nods as if she’s made a fair point.
Tom stands behind me like a lengthy shadow. Someone points at him and guilt pricks at my joints. “Let’s get you something to drink.”
At the bar Tom pulls his baseball cap on, which I gather is more of a safety blanket for him than any real disguise. I get us two soda waters and a Guinness for Conor.
“And a beer please,” he tells the bartender. “Cheers.”
When I turn to him in surprise he says over the din of the crowd, “I’ve heard some folks drink for pleasure, and not solely to drown their sorrows.”
But his eyes hold some kind of appreciation. Like something new has developed that allows him to feel differently about the stuff. He takes one sip of the foamy beer, and then a larger gulp when a rambunctious patron knocks into him.
“Slow down there, partner,” I say with a southern drawl. “I can’t carry you to bed like you did for me.”
Tom laughs a bit but stays pretty quiet. A gaggle of women across the bar are staring at him. He turns his back to them and takes another sip.
“We can go back,” I say, my voice competing with the catchy bluegrass song.
“Lad’s fine,” Conor says, sidling up to us and taking his Guinness from me. “Cheers.” He downs it in three long gulps and then smacks Tom on the shoulder. “Gargle’s a sound start. Another?”
“No, no,” Tom warns. “One’s plenty.”
Tom’s shoulders have relaxed a bit. I remind myself these two have known each other since they were kids. If Conor isn’t worried about Tom, I shouldn’t be, either.
Conor snorts. “Don’t be troublin’ yerself o’er Jen? She’s not even here, like.”
