She twisted around to look over her shoulder. The driver behind her was trying to back up to give her space, and the one behind that was leaning on the horn. She turned forward and wrenched the steering wheel. The front of the truck made it into the space, but her tire bumped up onto the curb. She turned off the ignition and got out to see how badly she’d parked. Probably not bad enough for a ticket, and anyway, she didn’t have time to look for another spot. She locked the door and jaywalked across Congress Street, jogging.
Billie wiggled through the small crowd that milled in front of the restaurant, pulled open the old wooden doors, and entered. It was crowded and noisy with talking and bursts of music that sounded like a band setting up. She paused for a second to take in the antique wall sconces and Saltillo floor tiles. She used to come here as a teen on dates. Twenty some years later, the place looked the same. Two old wooden phone booths huddled side by side near the entry. Wagon wheels hung on the walls. Spurs sat on tabletops, holding menus. The tables’ edges were wrapped in lariats, the seat cushions covered in bandana cloth.
Billie squinted at the stage at the far end of the room to see if she knew what band was setting up. A banner on the wall advertised KXCI, the local independent music station, but she didn’t see anything with the band’s name on it, and she didn’t recognize any of the bushy men clutching mandolins and guitars as they milled around in the blue spotlight.
She spotted Frank seated toward the middle of the bar, staring at bottles lined up on mirrored shelves. He hadn’t seen her enter, and she paused to look at him for a minute. The years hadn’t changed him much. Now fifty-three, he looked a little thinner than when she’d last seen him. Or maybe not. His jawline was sharp enough to see under his beard, his cheekbones more pronounced. Maybe he’d just aged a bit. He needed a haircut, unless he now wore his hair longer. He used to like it cropped so short his curls didn’t show. Now the curls fell into his eyes and softened the edge of his collar. His hair and beard were still dark. She had always liked his beard, the feel of it, the professorial look of it, the way it accentuated his almost black eyes. She watched as he picked up his pen and held it between his second and third fingers, jiggling it in a gesture of impatience she had hated when they were married.
He glanced down at his wristwatch then turned and looked right at her as if he’d known she was watching him. He looked her up and down then reached over and pulled back the seat next to him.
“What do you want to drink?” he asked. “The same as before?”
“White wine. The house white is fine. Whatever.”
He gave her a quick look before hailing the bartender.
“You nervous, Billie?”
“Nope. Why would I be? It’s just you and me in a bar, again.”
He took a long drag on his beer, watching her in the mirror. Billie expected him to toss back the bourbon chaser in front of him, but he turned and stared silently at her.
“So?” she watched her mirror-self ask. Above the neckline of her brown silk blouse, her skin was tanned almost butterscotch.
“You look…rugged, kiddo. I like the short hair.” He reached for her hand. When she gave it to him, he turned it over, opened her fingers with his own and, holding them back, looked at her palm. He turned her hand sideways and examined the callous along the outside of her index finger and the one along the outside of her pinkie. Then he looked up.
“Will you have dinner with me while we talk?”
“Sure,” she said, sounding casual, as if her future didn’t rest on it.
He picked up the ballpoint again and resumed jiggling it between his fingers. He looked up toward the corner of the room, then to another corner. He whistled tunelessly, just an exhale, drumming the bar top with his pen. Bad signs, all of them. She sat silently, watching herself in the mirror. She should have worn a necklace, something bright at her neck. Otherwise, she looked good, hard and soft at the same time. Chic enough to suit him. Add the right jacket and she’d be good to go anywhere. She looked ready.
Finally he asked, “What were you thinking sending me that query?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, Billie. That was a joke, right?”
She hadn’t forgotten the way he could slice her to shreds with a few words, but she hadn’t expected it.
“You know we don’t do pieces on animals. For God’s sake, Billie! Horses in Tennessee! Who wants to read about Tennessee? This isn’t Reader’s fucking Digest! You were kidding, right? Please, please tell me you were.”
Recoiling from his sarcasm, she gulped the rest of her wine then looked for the bartender. When she spotted him, she held up her glass and mouthed, “White.”
“How are the margaritas here?” Frank hailed the waiter when he brought Billie’s wine then ordered one without waiting for an answer. He stood up. “Let’s move to a table.”
He moved them to a small table without consulting a waiter, pulled out her chair, and sat across from her. “Now,” he said. “Explain.”
“It’s a good idea for a piece.”
“You’ve been out in that Arizona sun too long,” he frowned. “You’d have had more chance at this magazine with a UFO story. And a UFO story has zero chance here. We’re slick, Billie. Cutting edge. This
