I pour more wine. The last guy that made me come like that was Tanner…. I curl up on my couch and turn on the TV, trying to push thoughts of Tanner out of my mind.
I went in blind with him—should I do the same with Cash? Even if he is just a Mr. Right Now? At least I know he’s not hiding any secrets: Cash is about as obvious as they come.
Or is he?
My computer glares at me from the coffee table. The inner lawyer wants to know all of the facts. A few quick searches on the old Google and I could satisfy a lot of my curiosity about Cash. Did he have old girlfriend pics on social media? Were there babies I should know about? A former wife? Would it hurt less if I knew going in? I shake my head, trying to dislodge those thoughts. Not everyone is Tanner. Some guys are good. If my best friend can find love in an ex-bare knuckle fighter, I have to believe it’s out there for me, too.
No computer, no background check. Just me, my wine, and the trashy joys of a Real Housewives marathon.
“I been out on the road so long,
on these old dirt roads,
just thinkin’ bout the girl I left at home…”
The music breaks through the sound of the TV. What fresh hell is this? I figure it’s just a passing car stereo, but the music gets louder. Closer.
My windows face the street and I look out—and there he is in the flesh. Standing on the sidewalk. Guitar, boots, plaid shirt and jeans. Tanner Jakes. My very own cowboy. Too bad I just want him to eat dirt right now
“Savannah!” he calls. “I’m not leaving, and I will sing all night.” He starts up again. A loud, off key rendition of his hit song. Cash was right; he does need autotune.
I back away from the window as if it burned me. He wouldn’t dare. He has a wife. A house. A white picket fence. All he’s missing from the All American Dream is the two point five kids. There is an entire life waiting for him somewhere else. He can’t come tear mine apart every time he feels like it.
I jump at a knock on my door. Tanner is still downstairs, because no one’s let him in yet. And they’re not going to. For now, I’m safe. Pausing the movie, I stumble to the door.
On the other side is my neighbor from across the hall, little old Mrs. Carson. She’s been in the building since the love of her life passed away—and she’ll tell you the story every chance she gets. Mrs. Carson is the type to bake you cookies and watch who enters your apartment through the peep hole, a southern gossip through and through. Her grey hair is wrapped in tight curlers, held in place by a bright pink scarf.
Clinging to her quilted robe, she looks me dead in the eye. “Dear, please do us all a favor and invite him up. Some of us need our beauty rest.”
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Carson.”
She gives me an affectionate pat. “Oh, bless your heart,” she says, which in southern is akin to ‘you poor, stupid thing.’ “If I was you, I might put on something different first, but…” she shrugs.
I walk past her, heading for the front door of the apartment. The day I change for Tanner is the day the devil sells snow cones to the Pope.
“Go home, Tanner,” I say from the doorway. He will not come up—I promise myself. He will not march back into my life. “I’ll call the cops.”
Bless your heart, my ass. This girl is made of steel.
“I’m not leaving, Savannah, until you let me up. Or is that ‘boyfriend’ of yours staying over? Send him out; I’ll deal with him. Either way I’m just thinkin’ bout the girl I left at home…” he sings, strumming the guitar loudly again. “You’re my home, Savannah.”
I can hear more doors open, and when I look back, many of my neighbors are sticking their heads out of their apartments that I realize I’ve suddenly become the new side show. If this doesn’t get me in trouble with my apartment manager, I don’t know what will.
“Stop, Tanner.”
He plays a few more chords, and I cringe. “Not until you let me in.”
Ugh. “You promise to shut up if I let you in?”
“My honor as a musician.”
Which is probably as good as your honor as a married man, I think to myself, but let’s just hope it lasts for a fraction of the time.
“Fine. Get inside. Now.” I stand aside, letting him enter.
Tanner stops right in front of me, invading my space with such casualness I want to smack him. But he just tips his hat to me. I glare. He cannot buy his way back into my good graces with his southern charm. I lead the way up the stairs to my apartment, and doors silently click shut. I’m sure Mrs. Carson will have plenty to tell her friends in the morning about the crazy girl who lives across the hall and her midnight visitor.
Inside my apartment, he seems larger than life. It’s like he sucks up all the space around him, leaving so little for me.
This was going to be my life. How many times had I pictured him here with me? Making love. Helping me cook. Writing songs. A life planned out in my head and smashed by his lies.