“Make that two,” she said before our server left.
“You’re mixing?”
“I’m in the mood for something stronger, too.”
Two vodkas later, we were filling in all the blanks.
“God, I fucking don’t want to go home,” she said, resting her forehead on her hand.
My brow creased. “Then why do it?”
She exhaled and churned her straw in and out of the margarita that now only had two frozen chunks left. “It’ll be better.” She didn’t look up. “Once I face all the jerks who told me not to leave with him in the first place.”
I lifted the beer I still had and took a sip. “It won’t be so bad. Everybody has to leave home. So what if you’re going back?”
“It’s the way I left.” She shook her lop-sided hair. “Everybody hated me with Blake. My mom called crying every day after we moved here.”
I set the mug down and slid my finger along the frosted side of the glass. “What was he, an ex-con?”
“Only if juvie counts.”
“Okay,” I turned in my seat and caught her left hand, opening her palm to expose the teardrop. “What’s this about?”
She shrugged. “I wanted to remember him somehow. I cried for so long after he died, I put a tear in my hand.”
“But you know that’s prison code for murder.”
“Yes, Carl already told me. I’m a dumbass.” She pulled her hand back and examined the little black drop. Her voice grew quieter. “But it makes sense to me.”
“He was killed in a barfight?” I’d done a little snooping back at the office.
She nodded, still looking at her hand. “Professional fighter beat him to death. Derek helped put the guy away.”
We were quiet then. I wasn’t sure what to say to her, if she needed comforting or if that would make her feel awkward. She put on a tough show, but I wasn’t buying it. Her easy blush for one gave away how young she still was.
The sounds of the bar were louder now that the after-work crowd was growing. More groups of guys were forming half-circles, laughing and shouting, while televisions blasted a soccer game from somewhere else in the world.
Kenny suddenly dropped her hand and looked up at me. “Let’s go dancing!”
“What?” I shook my head, sitting up straighter. “I’m no dancer.”
“Come on.” She hopped off her stool and grabbed my arm. “There’s a club across the parking lots. It’s pretty much a wannabe rave, but it’s better than this sausage fest.”
With an exhale, I stood and fished out enough cash to cover our tab. Her story had mellowed my fight, and I didn’t feel like just sitting and drinking anymore. “You really want to dance?”
“Yes,” she took a long sip, squinting as she polished off the margarita. “I’m tired of being sad.”
* * *
In less than five minutes we were in the dark club. Electronic music blasted, and black lights illuminated plastic glow-stick accessories and anything white. Kenny went straight to the floor, rotating her hips and moving her arms in time to the music. I went to the bar and ordered another beer. For a while I watched her. Her eyes were closed, and her tiny body twisted gracefully in those crazy shoes. She seemed lost in the repetitive song. Then it morphed into something new, and her eyes opened to meet mine.
She walked to where I leaned against the bar and took my hands, placing them on her hips. “Why aren’t you dancing?”
Her hands went to my shoulders, and she swayed in front of me. In the flashing lights of the bar, all I could see were her blue eyes. She smiled and that dimple appeared.
“Your story beats mine by a
longshot,” I said, unsure how I wanted to feel about her. The whole fact of us here, together, touching each other this way seemed out of left field. But at the same time, it wasn’t a bad thing out of left field.