Page 127 of Old Habits
I dig my heels into the floor. “I said no—”
“Dancing,” he finishes. “Right, I heard you and yet…”
He takes hold of my wrist and walks us toward the center floor.
“Will.”
“You just have to sway,” he says. “You can sway, right?”
I sigh with rolling eyes. “Fine.”
He grins wider and pulls me in, placing firm hands on my hips. “That’s my girl.”
I extend my arms over his shoulders and we sway on our feet, barely lifting them off the floor. The minor embarrassment of the act quickly vanishes as I gaze up into his eyes. It’s strange. We’re completely surrounded on all sides by people probably staring at us but it feels like we’re the only people here.
The music draws me in again and I look once more at the band leader sitting at his keyboard. His fingers glide along the keys, pounding them with swift, elegant precision and I can’t stop the smile from latching onto my lips.
“What are you thinking about?”
I blink back to Will. “What do you mean?”
“That’s like the third time you’ve looked at that piano player,” he notes. “Do I need to be worried?”
“No,” I say, chuckling.
“Or jealous?” he adds. “Because I can puff my chest out and flex if you want.”
I shake my head. “No, he just reminds me of someone I used to know.”
Will pauses, his eyes casually trying not to show the excitement hidden in them. He hesitates but finally asks, “Who?”
My mind wanders back as I stare at the pianist again. For the first time since I came back to Clover, I feel a piece of myself expanding. It’s like I’ve lived and breathed inside a tiny box for weeks. I wondered how long it would take before I dared crack it open.
“I was in Seattle,” I say, drawing his full focus. “I was broke — completely broke — but I had this dollar store harmonica and a glass jar, so I stood on a corner downtown and started playing it.”
“You can play the harmonica?” he asks.
“Oh, no. Not at all. I faked it. I thought I was faking it pretty well…” I pause, immersed in the memory, “until this guy walked up to me. He was tall and older with this silver-speckled beard. Kind of reminded me of my dad… Anyway, he grabbed my shoulder and said, ‘oh, honey sweetie, you’re never gonna get laid playing that thing.’”
Will laughs.
“Then,” I continue, “he bent down, picked up my jar of pennies and lint, and made me follow him down the street.”
His eyes twist with a protective vibe. “Then, what’d he do?”
I smile. “He took me to this dueling piano bar. It wasn’t even open yet but we just waltzed inside like he owned it. He sat me down on the piano bench, ordered this huge plate of nachos from the staff at the bar, and he taught me how to play.”
He blinks. “Really?”
“Well, he taught me how to play Chopsticks.” I chuckle. “Then, it was Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and then a few bars of Moonlight Sonata. Turned out, he actually was the owner. He let me stick around the rest of the night and watch the show.”
“That’s pretty cool.”
“It was amazing,” I say, remembering the thick smoke and pale, blue lights. “Afterward, he saw me still sitting at the bar, drinking nothing but water because it was free. He walked up, shook my hand, and asked me who I was. I told him I was Jovie from Clover, Kansas. He said, ‘Well, Jovie. I’m Bernard and I’m from Des Moines.’”
Will squints with suspicion. “Then, what’d he do?”
“Then… he took me back to his place, gave me a big blanket from his closet, and let me sleep on his couch.”