Page 3 of Every Now and Then
I’m still mulling over the contrast between us and everyone else in this place when he interrupts my train of thought. “What made your year so tough?”
Angling my head at him, I gauge his intention. Does he want to know, or is he making polite small talk to compensate for his initial rudeness? His eyes meet mine, and his interest seems genuine.
I scramble for an honest answer, but one that won’t scare him off. This is the first conversation I’ve had with a person who didn’t look at me with pity, so I seek a harmless, yet truthful, response.
“For starters, I can’t sleep. Haven’t slept through the night in months. I wake up riddled with anxiety, and I can’t go back to sleep for hours.”
“Not trying to reinvent the wheel, but have you tried focusing on something boring, like counting sheep or reciting your grocery list?” His voice is low and sexy as hell. It reminds me of hot honey. Smooth and flowing. Comforting. With just enough rasp to his Southern twang to make it spicy.
“Sort of. It’s kind of stupid, but I usually wake up with a song running through my head, and I focus on it. Try to remember all the words, analyze the lyrics, think about what facts I know about the band, that kind of thing.” My fingers trace the stem of my plastic wine glass as I talk.
“That’s not stupid. Music is always on my mind, too.” He takes a swig of his beer and fiddles with the label on the bottle. It’s grownsoggy from the condensation, and he scrapes it off with his thumbnail. “Same song each night or different songs?”
“Same song.”
“What song? Is it by the Stones?” He nudges my shoulder and sends me another infectious crooked grin.
Maybe he’s not a total asshole.
“I Ain’t Worriedby OneRepublic.”
Chuckling, his eyes hold mine as he replies, “You see the irony in that, right?”
Turning his comment over in my head, I can’t help but wonder how the hell I’d never made that connection before. Awake, crippled with anxiety, and the title of the song I can’t get out of my head isI Ain’t Worried.
Ironic, indeed. Alanis would be proud. “Huh, I do now.” Like a steam engine gathering speed, a little giggle escapes, mushrooming into a full-blown belly laugh. My seatmate’s mouth quirks to the side, amused. “Thanks for that. I haven’t laughed in a long time.”
“Glad I could be of service, ma’am,” he replies, tipping his hat toward me.
“Cut thema’ambullshit.”
His voice grows huskier. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you’ll call mesiragain.”
My startled eyes meet his. It’s been so long since a man flirted with me, I don’t even know how to respond. Hell, I'm not even sure heisflirting with me.
He pauses, contemplative. “And I don’t know what else to call you.”
Holding out my hand, I introduce myself. “I’m Annabelle.”
Impulsively, I offer him my full name. No one ever calls me that, but when I take a moment to think about it, I know why I said it.
I want to be someone else tonight. I don’t want to be Anna. Anna has the weight of the world on her shoulders, loaded down by the burdens of betrayal, lost dreams, and single parenthood.
I want to be Annabelle. Annabelle is young and fun and carefree. Annabelle is looking for a good time and a memorable night filled with poor decisions.
After tonight, I’ll tuck this version of myself away. But first, I want freedom from my reality for a night.
As his warm hand grips my own, an electric current shoots through me. My imagination is probably running wild, given the circumstances.
But when his gaze collides with mine, his surprised expression confirms he felt it too.
“I’m Hayes, or you can just keep calling me asshole if you prefer. Nice to meet you, Annabelle.”
Releasing his hand from mine, he settles it around his Lone Star beer bottle again. We sit in silence for a couple of minutes, slowly sipping our drinks. It’s companionable. Peaceful, even. But the ringing of his cell phone interrupts our comfortable silence several times. It lies face down on the bar in front of him, well within my line of sight, making it difficult to ignore.
“You gonna get that?” I ask after his cell clatters on the bar top for about the hundredth time.
“No, but I will turn it off.” He powers it down and stands up to slide his phone into the front pocket of his jeans.
