Down on Love (11 page)

From her other side, Casey nudged her arm. She glanced over and was startled to find him way closer to her than she’d expected. He whispered, “Steverino the Wonder Plumber.”

George’s mouth fell open. Shocked enough to focus on the words and not the breathy tickle on her ear, she whispered back, “Shut
up!
” Just when she thought the town couldn’t get any more insular. Then she turned back to Darryl. “When did you know?” she pressed.

“It wasn’t a question of when; I pretty much always knew. It was more . . . when was I going to admit it first to myself and then to everyone else? And the answer to that was, of course,
after
high school. Way after.”

“You took Sera to the prom,” George said, trying not to make it sound like an accusation.

“Exactly.”

“Oh . . .”

“The light dawns.” Darryl drained his beer and added, “Sera helped me out a lot. Well, we helped each other. She was always there for me. She’s really good at keeping secrets.”

“Are you sure we’re talking about my sister, here?”

“She was a good friend.”

George patted his huge arm. “I’m glad. Do the two of you still hang out?”

His expression darkened. He reached for the pitcher and grunted a non-answer. Hm. She changed the subject. “Anyone special in your life lately?”

“Oh yeah.” D grinned. “Casey’s the best boyfriend ever.”

Casey didn’t even bat an eyelash. Smiling around the lip of his beer cup, he muttered, “Shut up.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing, baby.”

“I’m not worthy.”

“Damn right you’re not. But hell, you don’t even make time for women. What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing. I’ve got things to do, that’s all,” he said, reaching for the pitcher and emptying the last of the beer into his friends’ cups before going to the bar to get a refill. “You know—work? You should try it sometime.”

“Excuses, excuses,” Darryl shouted at his retreating back. Casey just waved over his shoulder without turning around.

 

George decided it would be wise if she didn’t finish her fourth beer. She’d been to the ladies’ room five times and still felt her insides sloshing with alcohol. What was more dangerous than an impending hangover, though, was what the beer was doing to her thoughts. Just as the floor was tipping at a precarious angle, her opinions were tipping from “I don’t need no stinkin’ Casey Bowen” to the red-zone “God, he’s still beautiful.” When she started wondering if she could possibly find an entirely logical reason for him to remove his shirt in the bar, she knew it was time to go home. George reserved one hug for Darryl and gave everyone else, even Casey, a collective farewell. She didn’t look at him as she said her good-byes, but she could feel him staring at her again. She scooted through the crowd and out the door.

The cool night air felt good on her prickly skin. She stood on the sidewalk just outside the bar and took several deep breaths, willing her buzz to go away, even though she knew nothing but time and several large glasses of water would do the trick. Good grief, three beers and her evening was over. When had she become such a lightweight? Well, she knew when—the Thom Era. He never drank much, just a glass of wine with dinner, mostly—he never went out to a bar with friends just to drink. And so neither did she, mainly because when she did indulge, she couldn’t bear the silent, disapproving look he gave her. And God forbid she ever actually got drunk, or even close to drunk. Then he really let her know what he thought of her. And his thoughts on a drunk Georgiana weren’t pretty. Or kind.

No, wait. That was over with. She didn’t have to think about Thom anymore, and she
certainly
didn’t have to worry what he thought of her. So she wouldn’t. She shook her head a little and teetered a bit. How embarrassing. If only she’d worn heels, she’d have a real excuse for being unsteady. She wandered over to her Neon parked at the curb and leaned against it. This baby was staying put tonight. She patted the Pink Lady’s roof. “See you tomorrow, faithful steed,” she muttered, then pushed herself off the side of the car. Time to start walking.

“Ma’am?”

Her head wobbled as she turned it. She felt like she had to make an extra effort to keep it steady. A man in uniform stepped into her iffy line of vision. It was one of Marsden’s three police officers and, judging by his peach-fuzz complexion and full cheeks, the force’s newest recruit. Wasn’t he just the cutest, in a fluffy kitten sort of way.

“Yes?” She hoped she was sounding dignified and un-slurry.

“Is this your car?”

“This one here?” She patted it again. “Why yes, it is.”

“. . . George?”

“Ye—” She looked closer at the officer. Behind her, someone opened the door to the bar, and the music blasted out onto the sidewalk until it closed again. “Billy?”

“‘Will’ now, but yeah.”

“Didn’t I used to babysit you?”

“Er . . .”

“Yeah, I remember. You always used me for Nerf gun target practice. So, good career choice. Play to your strengths.”

“Don’t antagonize the nice police officer, George.”

Casey. Coming up beside her and making her jump a mile. Again.

“I’m not,” she protested. “I just made a simple observation. And stop sneaking up on me.”

He ignored that last bit. “You forgot your purse,” he said, offering it to her.

Oh. “Thank you.” She accepted it from him and tried several times to put the straps on her shoulder, failed, and tucked it under her arm instead.

Billy—Will, whatever—watched her carefully as she tussled with the misbehaving straps. “George, you weren’t thinking of driving home, were you?”

“’Course not,” she scoffed. “I’m walking.”

“That might not be very safe, either—”

“I’m driving her home, Will,” Casey spoke up. “I’ll make sure she gets in all right. You have a good night, okay?”

Casey grabbed her arm and steered her up the block toward Main Street.

George dragged her heels and started to protest. “I don’t need—”

“Now, now, none of that. Let’s get you home, Drunky McTesty. Before you get yourself in trouble.”

“What’d I do?”

“Get in the truck.”

They stopped by Casey’s F-250 and he reached for the door handle, but George dodged around him and stumbled into the street, which fortunately was empty. He corralled her easily, since he was sober and she was wobbly, and he gently grasped her arm.

“I can walk!”

“I don’t think you can.”

“Come on, let go! I want to see that.” She pointed with her free hand back toward the buildings nearby.

Casey tightened his grip, probably thinking she might be trying to distract him so she could dart away again, then looked over his shoulder at where she was pointing. “What?”

“It’s another Marsdy. I wanna see it. Let go.”

Instead, he took her hand and let her lead him up onto the sidewalk outside the post office. Sure enough, right at the corner, in the pedestrian walkway leading to a parking area behind the building, there was another spray-painted picture on the sandstone, this time one of a stick figure “climbing” out of a crack in the building, holding a bunch of flowers.

“Oh, how cute,” George cooed. From somewhere in the back of her fuzzy brain she realized she might be sounding like an idiot. But it seemed perfectly suitable at the moment. She moved forward, but Casey stayed where he was. Their hands separated. She stared intently at the graffiti, then she reached out and touched it with a fingertip. She spun around. “It’s still wet! Hey, I’ll bet Marsdy is still around somewhere! Let’s go hunt ’im down!”

“Goose—”

She ran back to him, tripped a little, and lurched into him. He caught her and held on.

“Come on. It’ll be fun! We can be detectives.”

He sighed. “We’re not chasing Marsdy, Nancy Drew. It’s late, and he’s probably long gone, anyway. Let’s just get you home.”

“You are
no
fun at all.”

Casey herded her toward the truck. “Are you always like this when you drink?”

“I don’t know. I don’t usually drink.”

“You don’t say.” He propped her against the truck and reached around her to open the passenger door.

“How come Officer Billy didn’t give you a hard time? You could be drunk too.”

“But I’m not. And he knows I’m not stupid enough to drink and drive.”

“Neither am I.”

“He knows me. He doesn’t know you.”

“Are you kidding? I’ve seen him in his footie pajamas.” George muttered, “I don’t need your help, you know.”

“Of course not. But I promised Officer Billy I’d get you home, so that’s what I’m going to do. And don’t worry about your car. Give me your keys and I’ll drive it to the house later.”

She moved sideways and blocked him. “You . . . you . . .” She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say. Then she blurted out, “Stop being so nice.”

Neither of them moved, even though they were only inches apart. George felt the heat from his arm near her waist, as he grasped the door handle. Her heart rate picked up. She cursed her traitorous body and took a steadying breath.

Casey studied her closely. “Is that what you like? Guys who aren’t nice?”

“No,” she said in what she hoped was a scoffing tone.

“Because that’s not me.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“What?”

“There’s such a thing as too nice, you know.”

“Get in the truck, George.” He finally moved her aside, a little roughly, and yanked open the door.

“You bug me,” she grumbled, but she let herself be tucked into the passenger seat.

He tossed her a brilliant, genuine smile as he clicked her seat belt into place. “No, I don’t.”

“Stop telling me what I think, mister. You don’t know me.”

Then his hand wasn’t on the latch of the seat belt, but on her waist instead, his fingers and palm pressing into her. He pinned her with his gaze, a bar of shadow in the darkness. “Oh, I know you, Goose. I know you better than you’d ever admit.”

The heat of his hand through her blouse was like a brand. She fought through the fog that swept over her brain, eventually managing to stammer, “You haven’t seen me in my footie pajamas.”

“Is that an invitation?”

George was speechless.

In the silence, Casey smirked and straightened up. Before he closed the door, he leaned back in to say, “Just stay put,” then slammed it soundly.

George was grateful the drive to the house only took three minutes. Even so, they were the longest three minutes of her life. It was dead silent in the truck, the air heavy between them. She wanted to say something more, make the mood lighthearted again, but she had no idea what words would do that. It wasn’t lost on her that Casey wasn’t speaking, either.

When they pulled into the driveway, Casey turned off the truck. “Let me help you get inside.”

“I only had three and a half beers.”

“Four and three quarters. You lost count.”

George opened her mouth to contradict him, realized she wasn’t entirely sure she was right and he was wrong, boggled at the fact that he had been monitoring her alcohol intake, and ended up saying nothing for a moment. Then, “I can manage.”

“I’m sure you thought the same thing when you engaged an officer of the law in a conversation about his childhood obsession with foam bullets and almost ended up on the business end of a sobriety test. Or charged with WWI.”

“WWI?”

“Walking while intoxicated.”

“Is that even a thing?”

But he just said, “Stay there,” because she had reached for the door handle.

“Why do you keep telling me to stay? I’m not a dog.”

“I know that. Just—” He held out his hand, palm up.

“‘Sit’ won’t work on me, either.”

But Casey didn’t answer, because he was already rounding the front of the truck to get to her side. He helped her down from the high cab and walked her to the front door.

“Need help with the key?”

“What key?” She turned the handle and pushed the door open.

“You really should lock your doors.”

“Did you forget we’re in Marsden?”

“All the same.”

George paused, trying not to weave too much, as she hesitated in the doorway. “Did you want to come in?”

“Do you need more help?”

“Does tucking me in count?”

He hesitated. “I’ll just leave you here, all right?”

“Ah.” Her stomach clenched and she looked away, into the darkened hallway. “Of course. I believe I’ve heard this song before. Sorry I said anything.”

“Don’t apologize. That’s one of the best offers I’ve had in a long time.”

Not good enough, apparently, because after getting her car keys, Casey left her with an admonishment to drink at least one whole bottle of water and take some ibuprofen, and a reminder not to try to take care of the baby tonight. Pshht. No kidding. She was tipsy, not stupid. He waited only long enough to make sure she locked the front door behind her, then he was in his truck and out of sight down the road.

 

George landed on her bed with a thud, and she kicked off her flats. Her laptop caught her eye, the charger light glowing green in the darkness. She sat up and took a swig of water from the bottle she’d grabbed downstairs—not because Casey had told her to. She’d known enough to do it on her own.

She reached for her computer. She really had been lax in keeping the blog updated. And now, with the house silent and everyone sleeping—including, miracle of miracles, Amelia, at least for the moment—it was the perfect time to tend to business. From the last sensible recesses of her booze-sozzled brain came the thought that blogging while intoxicated wasn’t the brightest idea, but she was willing to chance it. She was a professional. Darn talented, in fact. A little alcohol would just make her more prolific, right? Like Hemingway and . . . all those other brilliant drunken writers. And because if she didn’t focus on something, she’d end up deconstructing her evening with Casey. She wasn’t sure if their exchanges had been good or bad. If she thought too much about it, she might decide they had been bad. And then she’d stew about it the rest of the night.