Even though she worked in Austin, she’d never lived anywhere else but the small town an hour outside of the city. Growing up, she’d had dreams of going to college in New York, of traveling, of seeing all the things the world had to offer. But after the shooting and her mom’s decline, those options had become so far out of reach as to be laughable. Now, even the simple lofts in downtown Austin seemed downright exotic.
“That’s not even a remote possibility,” she said to her real-estate-agent friend.
“Fine, but maybe try to loosen the border restrictions on your life a little. I know you have a lot on your plate, but sometimes you just need to go out, do something crazy…examine some cornices from beneath a sexy guy.”
Taryn snorted. “There will be no cornices tonight.”
“Doug’s loss. But look, I’ll see you on Sunday at the charity run. We’ll do some brainstorming,” Kincaid said resolutely.
“We’re also supposed to start training for the university’s 10K run that you agreed to do with me. We need to figure out a schedule,” Taryn reminded her.
“Hold up. Did I actually agree to that?” Kincaid asked, her voice getting higher-pitched at the end. “Like with a yes?”
“Yes.”
“Was I sober? Because I don’t think it counts if I wasn’t.”
“Stone cold,” Taryn said, shaking her head. “Don’t try to back out of it now. You said you were, and I quote, ‘eating like a bear preparing for hibernation and needed to get your ass off the couch.’”
“I would never say such a thing, but we’ll talk about it after the ‘Let’s find excitement’ brainstorming. That’s more important. I am not friends with boring people, so I know there’s a wildly fascinating woman on the other end of this phone. We just need to bring her out a little. Because I could give a shit if some dude finds you interesting, but Lord, if you’re boring yourself, it’s intervention time, sugar.”
Taryn smiled and leaned against a light post. “I’m not sure there are interventions for this but thanks.”
“Yep. And sure there are. I’m on it. See you on Sunday.”
Taryn exchanged goodbyes with her friend and pushed away from the light post, feeling a little better and trying to decide which was the best way back to her car. She should probably circle the block. She’d just given Kincaid a speech about preparing for a run but hadn’t exercised beyond walking back and forth across the classroom in ages. She started walking and reassessing the rest of her night. Maybe tonight she would take a break, skip the statistics compiling, and just go straight to the James Spader movie.
Taryn turned the corner and, after half a block, passed a small bar with an open door. Her steps slowed. The sidewalk sign outside the door advertised open mic night at the Tipsy Hound, and the initial guitar chords of an old Green Day song she used to love drifted out to her, mixed with the clink of beer bottles and muffled conversation. Unable to stop herself, Taryn paused to listen and leaned into the doorway to peek inside.
The bar was tiny and only half full, but the skinny guy onstage commanded the room with a single spotlight, bright-purple hair, his acoustic guitar, and a song about walking lonely roads and empty streets. Taryn listened to the opening verse of the song, her fingers curving against her purse strap as if holding the neck of a guitar, her muscle memory playing chords along with him. “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” had been one of the songs she’d secretly taught herself to play on the guitar in high school. It had contained the proper amount of angst. Taryn mouthed the lyrics.
“Want to come in?” an upbeat male voice asked from the dark interior.
Taryn startled and squinted as a guy with a backward baseball cap and long, red hair stepped into the light of the doorway. He had an apron tied at his waist and a pen behind his ear, but somehow she got the sense he was in charge.
“No cover charge,” he added. “And if you want to perform, the audience favorite wins fifty bucks and a free beer.”
“Perform?” she asked, unable to hide the incredulity in her voice.
He shrugged. “Sure. I mean, you were singing.” He nodded toward her shoulder and wiggled his fingers. “And air-guitaring.”
Had she been? “Um, no, thank you. I mean, I can’t.”
“Sure you can. Anyone can,” he said with an easy smile. “That’s the beauty of open mic night.”
She shook her head, her shoulders tightening. “No. I don’t have a guitar or anything and—”
“We have a loaner up there.” He cocked his head toward the stage. “You play?”
Taryn’s gaze jumped to the stage. Did she play? No. Not in over a decade.
But this weird urge to say Yes, I do and sure I’ll play zipped through her like a firecracker. What in the hell was that? Maybe the combination of wine and her conversation with Kincaid had been too much. It was making her think insane thoughts. Taryn stepped back and lifted her palm. “No, I haven’t played since I was in high school. I better be getting home.”
“Aww, come on. I know that look. You want to.” He swept a hand toward the stage where the guy was finishing his song. “Take a shot. I bet you’ll remember more than you think. Plus, Mo’s the last of the night, and I could stand to sell a few more beers. Give it a whirl. It’s technically nineties night so anything from that decade is welcome, but, as you can see, even if you pick something off theme, you’re fine. Boos and hecklers aren’t allowed here.” He tapped his name tag, which had Kaleb typed in blue letters and a logo with a droopy bloodhound on it. “The Tipsy Hound needs to be true to its mascot. People are friendly here. And drunk. Bu
t mostly friendly.”
Taryn swallowed past the dryness in her throat, and her heart thumped faster than the rhythm of the music. Was this what Kincaid was talking about? Stepping over the borders of her normal life and walking into completely unknown territory? Taryn had played guitar all through high school, but she’d never performed in front of anyone outside of church. Her parents never would’ve approved of the songs she played or the ones she wrote in the privacy of her room because they thought music was a distraction.