“Hey, you’re the fiddle player, right? Have you and he ever, you know, before? Is he as yummy in bed as he looks?” She yanks her sleek red locks into a low ponytail and appraises her reflection in the mirror.
Yummy? Who uses such a childish word to describe sex? This chick, apparently. Well, now I just want to slap her on general principles.
A humorless laugh escapes my lips. “Guess you’ll be finding out for yourself. Excuse me.” Stepping around her, I brace my hands on the marble counter surrounding the sink. Determined not to have my breakdown in front of this random waitress, I take a deep breath and splash a few handfuls of icy water on my face. Straightening, I grab a paper towel and dry off. My mascara ran just a little so I dab it under my eyes until the smudges are gone.
Glancing over I see that she’s applying lip gloss and leaving. Thankfully.
“I hope I’m not like encroaching on your territory or something.” She smiles, but it’s not genuine and doesn’t reach her eyes. “I mean, I have a boyfriend and all. I just have a soft spot for musicians.”
“I’m sure you’ve had plenty of musicians in your soft spot,” I say without thinking.
Her eyes brighten and I can tell this is what she wants. A catfight. A confrontation. Half of the reason she wants him is probably because I had my defending-my-kill face on out there. Well to hell with both of them.
“Oh, aren’t you precious. You’ve got a thing for him,” she practically singsongs while squealing with delight. “How sweet. But, honey, that’s a man out there. Bless your heart. You’re just a kid, sweetie.” She tosses me a falsely sympathetic head tilt on her way out.
I don’t bother informing her that he’s barely a year older than me. I’m pretty sure she’s not talking about physical age anyway. I’ve lived in Texas my whole life. So I know when someone says, “Aren’t you precious?” they mean, “God, you’re stupid.” And when a woman blesses someone’s heart she’s really telling him or her that they’re too damn dumb to live.
Maybe she’s right. My eyes narrow critically at my reflection. I’m tallish for a girl, five foot six and thin, but I have some shape to me. Enough that I haven’t been mistaken for a boy since I was fourteen. My naturally curly hair is dark and has gotten far too long, nearly reaching my waist, but I haven’t had time to get it cut since we’ve been on the road so much. It lightens a little in the summer, picking up tones of red when my pale ivory skin, reminiscent of my mom’s tone, turns a light shade of golden brown. My eyes are large compared to the smaller features on my face and are a version of blue that looks like clear gray bordering on green in sunlight. But in the fluorescents of the restroom, I look washed out and faded.
I’m not hideous or anything, but I’m not a walking sex stick like Gavin Garrison, either. The waitress’s words linger in my head. Maybe Gavin has had so many women he’s tired of regular sex and is into cuffs and whips and God knows what else. And that’s just not me. I sigh and watch as my shoulders drop.
I know what I am. I’m lace and daisies and a fiddle on my grandparents’ back porch. Dirt roads and dandelions, like Papa says. Vinyl records in a world of digital downloads. Papa also used to say I had an old soul and that’s why I had an appreciation for things before my time. But Gavin is the kind of man every type of woman wants. He’s dangerous and daring where I’m sweet and safe. Hard where I’m soft, rough edges where I’m smooth.
We don’t belong together and I’m an idiot for thinking I could ever have him. I feel foolish for daring to even dream that I could tame someone who’s had every type of woman in his bed and never asked a single one of them back for round two.