Page 8 of For a Goode Time Call…
Shit, the vodka was hitting her.
“The truck took dance away?”
She peered into the empty shot glass. “Empty. Damn. Empty glasses are stupid.” She slid the glass away with a morose gesture. “Truck took dance. Took Rick. Took me. Took me away from me.”
“Who’s Rick?”
“Fiancé. Ex-fiancé. He was brain damaged by the wreck. Made him not love me anymore. He knew me, remembered us, everything. Just didn’t love me anymore.” She paused. “Fuck him, though, right? Without dance, why would he love me? He can dance. I can’t dance. No dance, no us.”
“That’s fucked up.”
She cackled. “Right? So fucked up. He was just like,” and here, her voice dropped to a gruff approximation of a male voice, “‘…sorry, Cass. I just need time to process things. That accident really messed me up. It wouldn’t be fair to you for us to stay together. I don’t know who I am anymore. I wish I could explain it better, but I can’t. I’m sorry. I just don’t love you anymore.’”
I frowned. “He said that to you?”
She nodded sloppily. “Oh yes. I couldn’t forget that conversation in a million years. I remember his stupid, beautiful face. Those stupid, beautiful blue eyes. His stupid, beautiful cheekbones. His stupid, beautiful, perfect blond hair. Of course, it wasn’t perfect hair anymore because they had to shave half of it to put his brain back in or whatever the hell they did to fix him. But he was still stupid and beautiful. And by stupid, I mean perfect.” She closed her eyes, remembering. “He looked at me with those big blue eyes the color of the ocean, and he told me he wasn’t in love with me anymore, and he needed to be alone. He needed to process who he was. I don’t know what the fuck that means. He had his memory, he didn’t have any broken bones. Didn’t need weeks of physical therapy just to be able to walk again. Didn’t lose anything. But the doctors were all like, brains aresomysterious. Brain injuries can cause breaks and changes in personality. It’s not his fault, and it’s very real.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” She stood up abruptly, chair legs scraping loudly against the floor. “Pee. I have to pee.”
“You, uh, you need help getting there?” I asked, standing up and moving to catch her if need be.
She shook her head, took two fierce, determined steps toward the back, and promptly tipped sideways.
“Ooh boy,” she murmured, catching the service bar. “Wheee. Maybe I do.”
I grabbed her bicep—tiny, thin, but hard as nails. Hauled her upright, and wrapped my arm around shoulders, tucking her against my side. “Come on, Cassie. This way.”
She pushed me away. “Too close. Too, too, too close.” She sniffed. “You smell good. But too close.” She peered up at me. “Jesus, you’re big. Like, tall. Really, super, a lot tall.”
“Six-seven,” I told her. I held out my hand, and she grabbed it. “Now come on. Let me help you.”
“But you’re not just tall,” Cassie said, grabbing my hand and using it for balance as she wove her way toward the back hall where the bathrooms were. “You ever seeBrave?”
I shrugged. “The little Irish girl, and the mom who turns into a bear?”
She giggled, a snort and a tinkle of laughter. “Scottish, but yeah.”
I laughed. “I’m the bear?”
“The big mean one. Just, you know, you’re not mean.”
“Try not to be.”
She stopped at the bathrooms—peered at the door. “I have to pee.”
I guided her one more door down. “That was the men’s. This is yours.”
She blinked. “Oh. I’m a woman. Gotta use the little women’s potty.”
I sighed. “Yeah, you are, and yeah, you do.”
She looked at me over her shoulder. “You noticed, did you?”
I met her eyes. “Yes, Cassandra. I noticed.”
She wiggled her hips side to side in a sultry shimmy, eyebrows dancing suggestively. “Ooh, I got the full name. You must really like me.”
