HOLDEN
“Just water?” I ask Sam. Since being seated at a corner table in BB Kings, she’s been quiet. Distant. Even though I didn’t make a big thing about walking in on her, again, having a moment with her ghost version of my brother.
I’m learning to roll with the punches.
“Uh, yeah,” she says. “I think I drank enough last night. Still have a bit of a headache.”
“And this is how you party like a rock star?”
She sighs. “I’ll make up for it. Later.”
The waitress raises a pen to her pad, and I say over the bass-filled music, “One beer and a Coke. Keep the water coming.”
Sam smirks as the waitress bounces off. “Caffeine will help,” I tell her.
She rubs her temples. “A dose of pain meds would be better.”
“Want me to run and get you some?”
Her eyes finally find me, and the look on her face makes me uncomfortable. Like she’s trying to piece something together. “I’m fine. Thanks.”
She goes back to checking out the bar, and I go back to checking out her. She’s wearing a tight black shirt that hangs off her shoulders, a dark denim skirt—that nearly made my heart leap out of my chest when she walked out of the bathroom—and her hair is tied back in a low ponytail.
I sigh and turn my attention to the blues band on the small stage. The high ceiling and low rafters with silver piping running along the walls makes this place feel like an abandoned warehouse. The band’s doing a raw, moody cover of You Rock Me, and the lyrics are eating a hole right through me. Being with Sam here, now . . . I can almost forget about all the shit that’s happened up to this point. Almost forget knowing that, this thing that’s got her mind all jacked up, it might never get better.
But she’s so damn hot tonight. I want to forget.
Walking down Beale Street, trying to take in the sights and people, all I could do was stare at her. And I think she noticed. She’s uncomfortable now, shifting in her seat. Avoiding looking at me. I don’t know if she and the version of my brother in her head worked everything out, and that’s why she was laughing back at the hotel. Or if she’s really just jumping on the crazy train—
I only know that being around her these past few days is like reopening an old scar with a dull knife, and then dousing it with salt and vinegar. I haven’t allowed myself to be around her—really be around her— in years. And the memories I have of this girl, along with being across from her now, are making my heart race and my body heat. All I know for sure is that I want her back. The old Sam.
The one who couldn’t go a day without painting or drawing. Who didn’t care what others thought of her dark edginess, because she loved her scene and who she was. The one who, despite everything that was messed up about our hometown, saw right through the pretentiousness to the beauty of the island—made it somewhere I wanted to be.
I can’t have her, though. I couldn’t have her then, and I can’t now. She still belongs to Tyler. She’s making sure of that, too. By not dealing with his death in a healthy way, she’ll never heal and be able to be with anyone else.
She’s not meant for me, but I can hope that, by the end of this trip, she’s able to move on. Because she deserves to be happy. With whoever she can find that can do it for her.
The waitress sets our drinks down, pulling me out of my disturbing thoughts. “Your food order is coming right out.” She smiles, and I nod at her.
After we devour our barbeque, I toss my napkin on the empty plate. “All right,” I say. “Not that I don’t appreciate the blues, and not to disrespect my brother’s memory”—Sam looks up at me; her nose ring catches the flashing lights—“but I’m not feeling this place anymore.”
Her mouth parts, her face contorting like she’s about to argue. But then she smiles, the tiny dimple beside her mouth making an appearance. My chest tightens. “I would have totally told Tyler this place is lame.”
That’s my girl. “All right then. We’re out.” I hold out my hand, and she only thinks about it for a second before she allows me to help her up.
Beale Street reminds me of a smaller, cleaner, slightly less beaten down version of New Orleans. That’s not to say it’s not dirty. Or smelly. It is. The street is blocked off at both ends so that people can roam with abandon. The sides of the old, worn-down buildings are lit up with colorful, flashing signs, and music flows into the street from the bars and clubs.
Sam points at something, and I watch a shirtless guy running down the middle of the street. He flips and tumbles and flips again, all the way down the stretch of pavement. We pass a group doing some kind of dance. Their movements limber and smooth, moving to the beat of the hip-hop music tumbling from a club.
I stop when I realize Sam’s no longer beside me. Wheeling around, I see her watching them. “What . . . you want to dance?” I ask, hoping like hell she says no. I mean, I can dance. Some. Just don’t want to in the middle of the street. Or to hip-hop.
“I think that’s what Tyler was talking about.” She nods to a kid as his hands weave through the air, his body following suit as his feet glide over the pavement.
“Juking,” I say, finally making the connection to what’s written on the map. I look up at the flashing sign that reads “Club 152” along the three-story building. Then read the poster taped to the glass. “Juking competition, second floor.”
Sam waggles her eyebrows. “Is this my dare or yours?”
I laugh. We decided that at each stop, one of us would fulfill Tyler’s wishes. No matter how out there. This one? It’s all hers. “I downloaded Talladega Nights and got us into the raceway.”