The jukebox clicked, then buzzed. An old Aerosmith song came on. She had a sudden flashback to her youth—standing front and center in the Kingdome, screaming out her love for Steven Tyler.
She took her card back from the bartender, slipped it in her bag, and headed toward the nearest table, where three men sat, talking loudly.
Normally, she’d find an empty table, sit down, and wait to see who came on to her, but she felt jittery tonight, nervous. She was tired of being alone.
“Hey, boys,” she said, gliding into an empty space between two of the men.
Their conversation stopped. The sudden silence made her teeth ache. That was when she noticed that they each wore a wedding ring.
She kept her smile in place. It wasn’t easy.
“Hi,” one of the men said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“Hi. ”
“Hi. ” The others followed suit. None of them made eye contact.
“I have to run, guys,” the first one said, pushing back from the table.
“Me, too. ”
“Me, too. ”
And just like that, they were gone.
Meghann waved at their backs, said brightly, “See you again, soon. Drive safely. ” Just in case anyone had witnessed her humiliation.
She counted silently to five, then turned around. There was another table, not too far away. This one had only one man seated at it. He was writing on a yellow legal pad, obviously taking notes from an open textbook. He was staring so intently at the work that he hadn’t seen her debacle at the table.
She walked over to him. “May I join you?”
When he looked up, she saw that he was young. Maybe twenty-one or twenty-two. His eyes were unguarded, filled with the kind of open-ended hope that came with youth. She felt drawn to that optimism, warmed by it. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. What did you say?”
Ma’am.
“Call me Meg. ”
He frowned. “You look familiar. Are you a friend of my mother’s? Sada Carlyle. ”
She felt like the old lady from Titanic. “No. I don’t know her. And I . . . thought I knew you, but I was mistaken. Sorry. ”
She tightened her grip on the wineglass. Desperation came for her, tapped her on the shoulder.
Get a grip.
She headed toward another table. As she came within range, a woman slipped into the empty chair and leaned in to kiss the man.
Meghann spun to her left and ran into a shaggy, derelict-looking guy who was obviously on his way back from the bar. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have signaled before I made a turn like that. ”
“No harm done. ”
He went back to his table and sat down. She saw that he was slightly unsteady on his feet.
She stood there, alone in the midst of the crowded bar. There were three men back at the pool table. Two of them looked dangerous, dressed as they were in black leather and chains. The third man had so many tattoos on his bald head that it looked like earth as seen from space.
She felt the press of desperation, but it was useless. This wasn’t going to be her night. She’d have to return to Claire’s homey, comfortable guest room, climb into bed alone, and spend the night tossing and turning and wanting. Wanting, most of all.
She looked at the derelict. His shoulders were broad; his black T-shirt stretched taut along the top of his back. The waistband of his worn, faded Levi’s veed out, as if he’d lost weight and hadn’t bothered to buy jeans that fit.