MEGAN UNPLUGS THE jukebox, and I spend a few minutes tuning my guitar. No one in the bar seems to be paying any attention to me. There’s a rudimentary sound system, which I can plug my guitar into, as well as a microphone for singing.
When I clear my throat and announce that I’m going to play, 90 percent of the patrons don’t pay any attention to me. Megan—who has a coworker helping her tonight—takes a break from serving drinks to sit on the bar top, her attention devoted solely to me. Tonight she’s wearing a red tank top, but I remember the Tom Petty shirt she wore last night.
I say, “This one’s for someone special to me,” and I strum the opening of “American Girl,” the only song I know by Tom Petty. Megan recognizes it right away, and her face lights up and she applauds.
Slowly, the other people in the bar start to pay attention, and soon everyone is listening to me. Everyone, that is, except for Dr. Neil Stephenson. The professor keeps talking to Ava, who seems to be doing everything she can to ignore him.
After “American Girl,” I start in on some of the country tunes I know well: songs by Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson and Tim McGraw. Jimmy Buffett is always a hit, no matter what the crowd is like. I play for about thirty minutes, and by the end there are about a dozen people on the dance floor. I know I should quit while I’m ahead, but I decide to try out Willow’s song “Texas Forever” on the crowd. I tell them that this is from Willow Dawes, and the audience lets out a hoot. It seems to dawn on a few of the faces that I might be the Texas Ranger she wrote her hit song about.
I do my best to remember the lyrics Willow sang and the ones she and I came up with on the fly. The whole crowd likes it—it’s a Texas crowd, after all—and just like at home, they’re shouting “Texas forever!” along with me by my second trip through the chorus. I decide to try to make up some new rhymes. I look over at Ava, Marcos, and Carlos, and I sing,
The Texas flag and the lone star
Drinking beers at the Outpost bar
The Ysleta Mission on the Tigua Pueblo
Playing bingo at the Speaking Rock casino
This brings a smile to the face of the usually stoic Ava, and I decide that’s a good place to end. I roll through the chorus one last time, and the audience sings practically all of it with me.
After I pack up my guitar, but before I leave the stage, I pull out my phone and send a text to Willow, explaining that I was playing around with her song and came up with some new lines. I feel a little strange, like I shouldn’t be texting her, but I tell myself there’s nothing wrong with it. We’re still friends, aren’t we?
Once I hit Send, I look up and see Megan standing at the edge of the stage, beaming at me. I feel guilty, like I’ve been caught doing something I’m not supposed to.
“That was amazing,” she says. Then she gets an ornery twinkle in her eyes, as if she’s up to something. “Can you help me lift a keg from the storage room?”
“Sure,” I say, unsure why she won’t ask her coworker.
I follow her to a storage area behind the bar—out of sight of the patrons—and as soon as we’re alone, she grabs me and pulls me into a kiss. We make out, pressing our bodies against each other, for a good minute or two.
“I’ve been wanting to do that since you walked in the door,” she says when we finally stop to take a breath.
I laugh. “I take it you don’t really need help with a keg.”
Reaching up to wipe some lipstick off my mouth, she asks what I’m doing later tonight, after her shift ends. I know what I probably should do is go to the hotel and get some sleep, but I tell her I’ll do whatever she wants.
“Maybe you should come back to my place,” she says.
I tell her I’ll give Carlos the keys to my truck, and I’ll wait with her until closing.
She stands on her tiptoes and gives me a peck on the cheek. I head back out into the bar, where I see Carlos is practicing his lassoing and Neil Stephenson has followed Ava and her fiancé over to the pool table.
I’d been worried that the professor had the hots for Megan, but I’m not sure that’s the case now with the way he’s following Ava around like a lost puppy. Marcos looks like he’s ready to throw Neil through the window, so I figure I better rescue them. I’ll go over and start chatting with Neil to give the couple a few minutes to themselves. But first I want to run my guitar out to the truck. I don’t want it left behind when I give the keys to Carlos.
As I push through the exit and into the parking lot, I make it about fifteen feet before I spot something that makes me stop short. Parked in the lot, near the door, is a blue Jeep just like the one Randy and his friend drove away in last night. Before my eyes can move to check the license plate number, some kind of blunt object—a broken pool cue perhaps—smashes into my lower back.
I fall forward, wincing in pain, as my guitar case goes flying.