Page 29 of Nocturnes & Nightmares

“I’ll pass. Assholes.” The anger is more intense than I’m letting on, but rather than go postal over it, I spin around to leave, but feel a tight grip on my arm. A quick glance back shows Bethany actually looking a slight bit rueful, though it’s hard to tell under the layers of black eyeliner around her lids.

“Wait, Nola. You never hang with us anymore. Just have one drink, yeah?”

Shaking my head, I grit my teeth to keep from biting her and attempt to pry my arm loose, but she tightens her hold. “I have things to do tonight,” I grit out.

“What? Watch TV until you fall asleep on the couch? When was the last time you had fun? Like, real fun?”

The words of my former psychologist come rushing to mind, and I drop my gaze so she doesn’t get the impression I’m actually pondering her question.

“You need this, Nola. I didn’t call you out because I wanted to piss you off. I knew you wouldn’t come. But I also know, deep down, you miss the laughs. Remember those deep belly laughs, when we’d work late shift and swear we were half drunk on exhaustion?”

I stifle the urge to chuckle right then, pursing my lips together at the memory.

“One drink isn’t going to take that long. And Oliver doesn’t come back until tomorrow, so you still have lots of time to yourself, am I right?”

It’s the time to myself that bothers me most. That’s when I do too much thinking and worrying. That’s when the memories take over, and I’m reminded of how lonely it is to be a single, widowed mom.

Maybe she’s right, as horrible as that may be.

“One drink. Then you assholes leave me alone and let me leave in peace.”

“Deal.” Bethany wraps her arm around me. “Dale! Get this woman a drink!”

Deal. Why do I feel like the deal I just made is with the devil?

As Dale makes his way toward the bar, I stuff my hands in my pockets, feeling wildly out of place here. Bars used to be where Denny and I hung out all the time, before Oli was born. We practically lived at the piano bar downtown, but now they’re crowded and loud, and far too stuffy for my comfort.

“Come sit here, Nola.” Shay waves me over to an empty space between her and Simon, who looks about as out of place as I feel. By the time I take a seat, Dale’s back, setting down a Long Island iced tea, evident in the gradient of browns and the lime stuck to the rim of the glass.

“You had to pick a drink with all kinds of alcohol?”

“If you’re gonna have one, might as well make it a good one, right? Enjoy.” He takes a seat in the chair across from me, and lifts his bottle of beer for a toast before clinking the side of my glass.

Enjoy. I stare at the drink I used to love, back in my party days, trying to remember the last time I ordered one myself. Maybe six years ago. I take a sip, and my mouth is instantly delighted by the flavor, as if my taste buds have waited years for this moment. It’s smooth, without the sting of all the alcohol I know goes into them. The sign of a talented bartender. Easing back into my seat, I watch Beth drag Shay out onto the dancefloor, and shake my head when she reaches back for me.

“Baby steps,” I say after her.

“Fine. But I’m getting your ass on the dancefloor again soon. Mark my words, Tensley.”

She and Shay hustle toward the jukebox, and I sip more of my drink.

“I don’t get the need for attention,” Simon says beside me. “It’s a foreign concept to me.”

“You’re not the only one.” I snort, using my straw to move around the large chunks of ice in my drink. “Give me a quiet night at home with a book, or a movie, and I’m in heaven.”

“That’s refreshing to hear. Feels like everyone I meet is some kind of … party animal.”

“Party animal or haughty little snob who won’t give you the time of day,” Dale adds before taking another swig of beer. “Believe me, I’ve tried.” He pushes out of his chair, heading toward the bar again. Guy might end up having to remortgage his home after all, if he doesn’t slow down.

Another sip of my drink, and I can feel my muscles growing warm, the room feeling less intimidating, bigger and lively. “Those days are gone for me. I’m just an old maid in dire need of a cat,” I say to Simon, who still sits beside me.

My mind instantly flips to earlier in the evening, when Voss stood in the doorway, shirtless, holding the tiny kitten. How, for a split second, I almost wished I was that cat nuzzled into his chiseled chest.

“You like cats?”

I shrug and set the straw to my lips, noticing my drink is half gone already. Slow down, Nola. “The stuffed variety.”

In my periphery, I catch Simon’s head snapping in my direction, and I slap a hand to my mouth to keep from spewing my last sip, as I snort a laugh. “As in, my son’s toys. I can’t really deal with too many live things. Plants. Animals. Other people.”