It’s funny, because the night actually started out pretty good. We got there early, unloaded our gear, and checked out the club. It was called the One More Chance Saloon—the name was a joke on something called the Last Chance Saloon. Or at least that’s what Harry said.
Anyway, it was a smallish, square-shaped room with a tiny stage up front. There was a bar on the left-hand side and a balcony on three sides looking down on a dance floor. There were already a bunch of people there, and the vibe, like it always is before midnight on New Year’s Eve, was good.
The first band on the bill was just getting started.
“Hey.” Johnny was standing next to me but had his eyes on the stage when he spoke.
“Hey,” I answered. He and I hadn’t talked since my freak-out in Harry’s backyard, and I felt pretty bad about it. “Look, Johnny,” I began. I wanted to apologize and wanted to thank him for the guitar pick, but he held up his palm and turned to face me.
“Hi,” he said, extending his other hand. “I’m Johnny McKenna.” He smiled. It was the old Johnny smile. The smile I fell in love with. “Can I buy you a drink?”
And just like that, a month of feeling bad about us was wiped away. Well, not wiped away, but watered down.
“I would love a drink,” I said, shaking his hand. I led him to the bar.
The club was pretty lax about carding. Whether that was because we were in one of the bands or because it was New Year’s Eve, I don’t know. Either way, they barely glanced at our fake IDs and served us each a beer.
Johnny and I made small talk. We talked about the club and how we both felt at home in places like that. We talked about Richie’s new motorcycle and what we thought that might mean for his skateboard. We talked about Jeff.
“Has Harry seemed distant lately?” Johnny asked when there was a lull in the conversation.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. It’s like his heart hasn’t really been in the band lately.”
I couldn’t tell if Johnny was upset, worried, or just curious about Harry, but I didn’t really care. Talk of Harry was going to ruin the mood, so I steered the conversation in a different direction.
“Thanks for the pick.” I was wearing the pick he’d given me for Christmas on a silver chain around my neck, and I showed him. Johnny leaned over and gave me a slow and gentle kiss on the cheek, letting his lips linger for just an extra second. He pulled back and smiled. It was a beautiful smile.
I don’t know how long we were sitting there, but I saw that my glass was empty, while Johnny’s was mostly full. I flagged the bartender, and she poured me another.
We kept talking, the beer and Johnny both giving me a warm feeling inside. We talked about how well he had done with his physical therapy. We talked about my new job at the bookstore and how much I liked it.
“You know, you never told me why you decided to get a job,” he said.
I couldn’t tell him the real reason, so I just said, “I was bored.” I guess the answer was good enough, because he nodded.
Johnny was about a third done with his beer when my glass was empty again. Now I was feeling great. I waved my hand, and another pint appeared in front of me. The buzz in the room was starting to build as the clock crept toward midnight.
We talked some more, except now I think I was doing most of the talking. I honestly don’t remember what I said, but when I looked up again, Johnny still had some beer in his glass and I was on my fourth. Or was it my fifth?
“Chey?” Johnny asked. And now the room was starting to spin a bit. “I think maybe you’ve had enough.”
That was classic Johnny. Not don’t you think maybe you’ve had enough? No. I think you’ve had enough.
I just waved my hand like I was literally brushing him off. “Lighten up, Johnny. I’m fine.”
He let it drop until the bartender was putting yet another beer in front of me. This time, Johnny talked to her.
“Don’t you think she’s had enough?” The bartender, a skinny white girl barely able to keep up with all the people ordering drinks, stopped and looked at me.
“You okay, sugar?” she asked.
“I’m fine,” I said, though I wasn’t sure that either of those words came out as something another human being could understand. I think they might’ve sounded more like whale song.
The bartender shrugged her shoulders and turned to the next customer. I wasn’t her sister or her daughter or her girlfriend, so I wasn’t her problem.
I stuck my tongue out at Johnny, trying, I thought, to be playful.
He looked at me, shook his head, and mumbled, “Happy New Year, Cheyenne Belle.” Then he walked away.
HARBINGER JONES