Regrets Only (21 page)

William
was a chance to find out what it was like to be the good girl. He also happened
to treat her well, which was nice, if not necessarily thrilling. After a few
months, William began hinting at their future together. Suzanne felt
conflicted, but told herself it was probably normal to feel that way in a
relationship that lasted more than a couple of months. It might be scary, but
would it really be so bad? Marriage, kids, the whole suburban dream?

The
more the relationship cycled toward commitment, however, the more she noticed
about William that she didn’t like. He had no fashion sense. He slurped his spaghetti
like an eight-year-old.
He said, “It’s all
good,” way too often. She began to notice every little thing she hated about
him, and with each item, the feeling that she was trapped in an ever-shrinking
box increased.

By
mid-December that year, she decided it had to end. But the holidays were
approaching, and there were plans and parties that would be ruined if they
broke up now—not just for herself and William, but their families, too. She’d
wait until January.

To
her horror, William did not intend to wait that long at all. At the New Year’s
Eve party at the country club, he had gone on stage just before midnight,
borrowed the microphone from the band, and proposed to her. It had seemed
everyone in the club was watching, sighing collectively and turning to kiss
their own spouses in celebration of how fucking romantic it was. Suzanne had
wanted to die.

No
such luck. So she had gone to the stage, pushed from behind by her mother, and
when the crowd began to cry out for her to answer him, he held the microphone
to her mouth. She shook her head, begging him with her eyes not to make it any
worse.

“Don’t
be shy, honey,” someone nearby said. William grinned and held the mike in front
of her.

So
when she whispered, “We need to talk,” it was broadcast not only to the
immediate onlookers, but to everyone within hearing distance. William had stood
as gracefully as he could, handed the mike back to the singer, and left the
room through the back door. His face had been a horrifying combination of shock
and hurt that she never wanted to see again. Suzanne followed him, but he ran
into the men’s locker room near the golf course. Part of her had been relieved
to have an excuse not to go in after him. He had never spoken to her again.

That
was the day Suzanne starting making her rules for dating. She never wanted to
get that close to someone again, only to hurt them. Instead, she tried to
figure out as soon as possible what might not work about a relationship and
make a decision early on, before things got too serious. She had more or less
decided then, though she had never uttered it aloud, that she would most likely
never get married. And dated accordingly.

Now,
out on her balcony, slapping paint on the canvas in a messy but therapeutic
abstract, she thought perhaps she had been too hasty when she rejected William.
Or maybe she just hadn’t been ready back then. Immature. He had loved her—that
was absolutely clear. Maybe he still could. Why shouldn’t she have the
beautiful marriage Marci and Jake had? What was so scary about sharing your
life with someone who wanted to be there for you and take care of you? She’d
been basically single for more than a decade, and she had nothing to show for
it except a ruined career and a stalker. Of course, a stable relationship didn’t
solve
everything
, but at least it would mean she wasn’t battling all
this alone.

Her
reverie was interrupted by the sound of a phone in the distance, and after a
moment she realized it was her phone, inside. She barely got through the
sliding glass door fast enough to catch it before it went to voicemail. She
hoped it was William.

“Oh,
hey,” she said when she heard the voice on the other end.

“Wow,
it’s been a while since a woman sounded so disappointed to hear from me,” Dylan
said. “I’m having flashbacks to tenth grade.”

“No,
no, of course not.” She tried to recover her usual graciousness. “Don’t be
silly.”

“You
left the cabin in such a rush,” he said.

This
time she heard her dad’s voice.
Never explain, never apologize. Let them
come to you.
“Yes.”

“Well,
anyway, you left a scarf at the cabin on Wednesday. Yvette found it and asked
me to bring it to you because I’m in Atlanta tonight for a meeting tomorrow.
It’s light green with a blue pattern on it. Kinda wispy.” Her father had given
her that scarf for college graduation.

“Yes,
it’s mine,” she said, about to suggest that he mail it to her, when the thought
of Rick and the stray panties gave her pause.

“I
was thinking we could meet for a beer later and I’ll return it to you. If
that’s convenient for you, of course, Scarlett.”

Was
Dylan Burke asking her out? No. It wasn’t possible. Her first impulse was to
say no. But why? He was a client; that was all. She was free, and there was no
reason not to meet him.

“Sure,”
she said
.

“I’ll
email you the address,” he said and hung up.

#

Suzanne
re-confirmed the address of the bar in front of her against the printed email several
times before finally turning off the car and going inside. She was somewhere
west of the city, away from the populated areas with trendy nightclubs but not
yet into the clean, predictable suburbs. The bar was in a shopping center between
a nondescript nail salon and a check cashing store. The storefront was darkly
tinted glass with a simple neon “OPEN” sign near the door, and a handwritten
sign taped to the door. “This is a smoking establishment. No one under 21
allowed. Period.” She took a last glorious gulp of fresh air and went in,
thinking she should have had Dylan mail the scarf.

To
her relief, however, the inside was not nearly as sketchy as the view from the
parking lot. Beyond a cold, dark entryway, there were warmly lighted tables and
booths surrounding a clean, polished wood bar. A couple of pool tables and dart
boards were occupied in a back corner. A garage punk band was performing a passable
rendition of a Smiths’ song on a crude wooden stage in the other corner.

It
took a moment to find Dylan, who was tucked into a booth on the music side,
wearing a frayed Braves baseball hat pulled down low, a crisp blue Oxford shirt,
and the glasses he’d worn at the gala. When he noticed her, he waved to get her
attention just as her recognition was sinking in.

“What,
no camouflage today?” she said.

“Nope,”
he said, smiling. “It’s my night off.”

“I
like the glasses,” she said. “They make you look…mature.”

“Thanks,”
he said. “I always feel a little self-conscious in them. But my contacts were
hurting my eyes.”

A
waitress came by and Dylan ordered them each a pint of Guinness, raising an
eyebrow for her approval as he did. She shrugged and glanced around for her
scarf.

“It’s
in the truck,” he said, following her gaze. “I didn’t want to get it all smoky.
Or for you to get hammered and forget it.”

“I’m
not planning on drinking tonight, Mr. Burke.”

“Whoa.
What’s with the sudden formality, Scarlett?”

Suzanne
had decided on the drive over to bring things back to a safer, more
professional level with Dylan—for the sake of her reputation and her sanity.
But it was meant to be a subtle change, and she didn’t expect him to notice.
“Sorry,” she said. “Dylan. Have you been here before?”

“Yeah,
I like this place. It reminds me of a bar we used to play in outside Knoxville,
you know, in the early days.”

She
nodded and looked around, politely taking it in. The bar was fairly busy, but
not crowded, considering it was a Friday night. There seemed to be a good mix
of people, of various ages and races, which was somewhat unusual for a dive bar
in Atlanta. The walls were adorned with liquor and beer ads, with a few British
travel posters and some Union Jacks thrown in. She noticed a random stuffed
sheep on one wall next to a flat screen with a soccer game on. The more she
looked around, the more she liked it.

“The
owner is English,” Dylan said. “He’s from Newcastle, I think. I came here
pretty late one night after a rehearsal and had a few beers with him. Didn’t
know who I was until the fourth drink. That’s what I love about being in
Atlanta.”

“Being
anonymous?”

“Sure,
sometimes,” he said. “I mean, it’s fun when people like you and tell you how
much they like your music and all. But other times it’s nice just to be a
regular person, talking about sports and eavesdropping on bar conversations. I
can’t exactly do that in Nashville.”

“So
you’re an eavesdropper?” she asked.

“Oh,
like you don’t do it, too,” he said. “Bar conversations are better than soap
operas. I get great ideas for songs that way sometimes. Not that you would
know, seeing how you don’t like my work…” He nudged her under the table with
his foot.

“Oh,
get over it already,” she scowled playfully. “Oooh,
one person
doesn’t
own every song you’ve ever made. Poor little rock star!”

He
grinned. “I know, I know. I’m a narcissistic asshole. But you’re not ‘
one
person,
’ you’re…you.”

She
was unsure how to respond to this, so she took a big swig of Guinness. He
looked at the table, toying with a paper coaster. “Speaking of you, being you…”
he began awkwardly. “This doesn’t have to mean more than it does, but I’m
really sorry about what happened with Misty the other day.”

Suzanne’s
face flushed a bit. The Guinness, surely. “No, no. It’s not a big deal,” she
said dismissively.
“I can understand why she
would feel territorial. It must be hard dating a superstar.” She attempted a
sideways grin like the ones he gave her sometimes.

He
rolled his eyes. “Well, we weren’t exactly dating. And she probably
was
feeling territorial, and pissed off for other reasons.” He looked at her as
though waiting for some kind of response, but she had no idea what to say.

He
went on. “Anyway, it was totally inappropriate and childish, whether we were dating
or not. I told her that when you left. And I made her leave, too.”

“You
did?”

“Yeah.
It was overdue. You were just a catalyst.”

“Oh,
I’m sorry,” she said.

“Are
you?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t
I be?” This conversation reminded Suzanne of an old movie, but she couldn’t
place which one.

“Well,
this conversation is really going places,” he said. “Anyway, I apologize.”

“Apology
accepted,” she said definitively.

They
were quiet again then, but with less awkwardness than before. She drank her
Guinness and bopped her head a little to the sound of the band, watching them do
a version of a 10,000 Maniacs song she loved, but couldn’t remember the title. Dylan
turned to watch them with her, and she saw that his hair was getting just long
enough to make a little duck tail at the back of his hat.

“They’re
pretty good,” he said appreciatively.

“I
wouldn’t have thought this was your kind of thing,” she said.

He
nodded as if he was expecting this. “Yeah. Actually, I like all kinds of music.
Good is good, as far as I’m concerned. I mean, sure, my roots are country,
especially the old school stuff, but I think you always benefit from keeping
your horizons broad. Some of my favorite artists aren’t anything close to
country.”

Suzanne
nodded, still watching the band. They all seemed to be in their early twenties,
wearing black, with longish hair of varying artificial colors, a variety of
piercings, and black fingernails. She wondered how they would feel if they knew
that one of music’s biggest stars was watching them right now. Would it change
how they played? Would they scramble to play the twangiest thing in their
repertoire, something he could relate to? Or would they think a mere country
star irrelevant to them? She had joked with Dylan about being the only person
who didn’t know his music, but she could hazard a guess that most of these guys
didn’t either.

“So
have you had any more problems?” he asked after a while. “Any creepy deliveries
since the last one?”

“No,”
she said. “I’ve been trying to pay attention, and Bonita calls me every couple
of days to check in. She’s really going above and beyond.”

“She’s
good people,” he agreed. “But you’re no closer to figuring out who this jerk
is?”

“No,
I’m not. But I haven’t been trying, except…” She broke off.

“Except?”

Oh,
why not? He’d been honest with her, and it was nice to have someone she could
talk to, especially with Marci not speaking to her. “Well, it’s not really
related to who is stalking me, but seeing all those names up there—as you so
graciously pointed out, there are lots of them—made me think about whether I am
doing something wrong. Like maybe I’ve let some people go I shouldn’t have.”

“What
do you mean?” He seemed genuinely perplexed.