I laugh. “Which time?”
“When we were thirteen, and you fell off and skinned your knee?”
“The time I thought I could ride with no hands?”
“Yes, that time. You were doing good, ’til that rock came out of nowhere,” he teases.
“I went right over my handlebars.” I still remember how the perfectly circular scrape matched the setting sun.
He nods. “Afterward, I helped you home, pushing both our bikes, while you hobbled next to me, doing your best not to cry.”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t. Not ’til I cleaned your cut. But I saw something more than tears in your eyes as I bandaged your knee. You trusted me and needed me. I swore to myself that I’d never let you be hurt again. You were—are—someone I’d do anything to protect, no matter how life changes us as we grow older. That’s why I came back; that’s why I sat beside you; that’s why I kept working on this house.”
I hear all that. I do. But all I can think ’bout is how I want to kiss him.
I hold my breath when his hands gently frame my face. His chest rises and falls, slowly. Roy moistens his lips, and I ache inside. I ache for him, for the boy who will one day be my husband, who will forever protect me.
He moves closer, his forehead lightly pressing against mine. I feel his warm breath and smell his familiar scent of Ivory soap. His lips skim over my lips, his kiss soft, then hungrier.
Roy stops, meeting my eyes, recognizing my desire. It’s easy. I’m breathless.
“Thank the Lord,” he says, “that we’re getting married next week.”
I playfully fan myself. “Ain’t that the truth?”
Roy slides a hand ’round my waist. “I’ve shown you mine; now you show me yours.”
*
“I really do think you’re really going to like Doc’s,” I say.
Roy’s laughter drowns out the muffled sounds from the other side of the door. “You’ve told me that ’bout five times now, Bonn. You trying to brainwash me?”
I shake my head, but I can’t resist one last comment. “This place means a lot to me. The music, the singing, the energy. It’s like it invigorates me.”
A smile stretches ’cross his face. “Go on, then. Show me.”
I bounce on my toes, feeling seven and not seventeen, and swing the door open.
The upbeat jazz I’ve come to know and love is a tidal wave. I keep my eyes trained on Roy as he steps into the basement. The chandelier in the middle of the dance floor catches the red glow of the DOC’S sign and casts shimmers of color on his face. The poker tables, the dance floor, the bar, back to the tables—I watch him scan the room, that smile still on his face. But he also slips his hands into his pockets, as if he’s a bit overwhelmed.
“All right!” Roy shouts.
I lean closer to hear him and nervously twist the hem of his jacket.
“All right,” he says into my ear. “This place is a real eye-opener.”
“In a good way?”
He smoothes his lapels. “That’s yet to be determined.”
That response is good enough for me. I release my grip, slide my hand down his arm, pulling his hands out of his pockets and intertwining our fingers. “Let me show you ’round.”
I point out Raymond at the tables, before we hug the edges of the room to avoid the chaos of the dance floor.
“Mary,” I say, coming to the bar, “I want you to meet someone.”
“Oh, good, you’re finally here,” she says.
“Sorry. I wanted to make sure my ma got her meds and was asleep before—”
She turns to Roy. “You must be Saint Bonnelyn’s very understanding and loyal boyfriend.”
“Fiancé, actually,” Roy says. “And you forgot ‘very forgiving.’”
Mary chuckles. “How ’bout a drink to celebrate? Whiskey seemed just fine with you before, Saint Bonnelyn.”
Roy raises an eyebrow at the fact I’ve had alcohol, but doesn’t say a word. He also doesn’t say no when Mary slides a glass of brown in front of him.
“You don’t have to drink it, if you don’t think you should,” I whisper to him.
“When in Rome, do as the Romans do.”
“Roy, you know that’s not what I meant.”
Roy flicks his gaze to Mary, back to me, as if I’m embarrassing him.
Mary raps her glass against the bar. “You two going to drink or exchange pleasantries?”
“Drink,” Roy says. “You wanted me to experience your world, didn’t you, Bonn?”
I sigh, trusting Roy.
We tap glasses, the sound of a trumpet eating up the clink, then sling back our brown.
Roy goes into a fit of coughing. I lick some spilled whiskey from the back of my hand and remember how it burned, the first time I swallowed it down.
“Want another?” Mary grins mischievously.
Roy pushes his glass toward her. “Why not?”
I sigh again, that trust waning. “Where’s Blanche?” I ask Mary.
She points to the ceiling. “Taking her break with Buck.”
“Say no more.”
“More” comes out like a shout, Rosie having just sung her final note onstage. Roy grins at my outburst.
“Saint Bonnelyn,” I hear, coming through the speakers. Rosie waves at me, motioning for me to hop to it and join her. “Come sing with me.”
Mary gives me a go-ahead nod, and I lean over the bar toward Roy. “This will be a bit different than the choir music you’ve heard me sing.”
It comes out as a question, being that I’m still unsure how Roy is handling his immersion in the speakeasy world—besides the whiskey; he’s clearly okay with that.
He grabs my chin, his thumb rubbing against my cheek. “Thank you for finally sharing all of this with me, Bonn. If you’re here, I’m here.”
Trumpet and piano harmonies erupt into the room, cheers from the crowd accompanying the melody. The music and Roy’s sentiment fill me with warmth as I scurry toward the stage. An overly friendly patron kisses my cheek, and I feel Roy’s eyes on me.
Rosie pulls me up, midclap, and I realize Roy’s eyes are really on the man who kissed me. I ignore the guilt that he’s probably thinkin’ ’bout Henry and fall into a rhythm with Rosie, both of us clapping, both tapping a foot, waiting for the instrumental opening to finish, while the dance floor is a frenzy of fox-trotting flappers and their men.
Roy sits at the bar, clapping, no longer consumed with the man, and I chuckle at him, partly in relief but also ’cause each slap of his hands is severely off the beat.
I moisten my lips, preparing to sing, when my attention is pulled to the door. In walk Blanche and Buck and, trailing a beat behind them … Clyde.
He doesn’t waste a breath before looking at me, drinking me in, a moment I can’t seem to pull myself from. Even if he didn’t resemble a shorter version of Buck, I’d have recognized him.
It’s his eyes. It’s those same intense, captivating eyes I first saw in the alley.
Deep down, I have this desire to know what he saw, what he did, before he stepped into this room.
And before he stole my thoughts.