Silas
The Ironwood Springs Resort Hotelhasn’t changed in at least twenty-five years. It might not have undergone a deep clean in twenty-five years, because everything is exactly the same as I remember it being when my grandparents took my sister and I here for a weekend when I was in middle school: animal heads on the wall interspersed with kitschy metal signs, a massive stone fireplace, green and yellow pendant lights hanging over the front desk.
The hotel bar is even kitschier. It’s designed like the interior of a log cabin, and everything that isn’t rough wood is a day-glo color straight out of 1975. There are vintage hubcaps covering one wooden wall, an ancient Pabst Blue Ribbon neon sign, a lava lamp in one corner, and George Strait playing loudly over the speakers.
I love it.
It’s Friday night, so the bar’s in full swing: not crowded, but not not crowded. As we walk in from the lobby, I can practically feel Kat tense at the number of people, her silence radiating outward. Sixty seconds ago, back in the room we’re sharing, she laughed at the fact that I brought slippers with me, but now she’s quiet and upright, alert.
I put my hand on her lower back and stroke my thumb along the valley of her spine. She’s strung like a suspension bridge. I keep an eye out for Meckler and his new girlfriend, but there’s no sign.
“Gin and tonic?” I ask her when we get to the bar, but she’s already picked up a cocktail menu and is scanning it.
“Too boring,” I can barely hear her say.
I lean down and get my lips closer to her ear.
“What’s exciting, then?”
Kat doesn’t answer right away, just cocks her head slightly in a way that makes one shoulder come up a little, shifts her hips toward me. She’s still got on the dress she wore to work though she’s taken off the blazer she had on over it: deep red, v-neck, and made of something soft that outlines her thighs when she walks.
“This one,” she finally says, and she arches her neck back so she can talk into my ear, voice buzzing against me. My hand is still on her back. I press my thumb in a little harder into the dip between two vertebrae.
“A Backwoods Bourbon Sour?”
“Please.”
“What should I get?”
“Depends on what you like.”
I look at the list longer than I should, but Kat’s relaxed a little, her shoulders down from around her ears and pressed softly against mine.
“Should I get a Thunderstorm or a Hot & Humid?” I ask her, just because I get to put my mouth near her ear.
“Will you regret tequila more than rum?”
“It’s one drink. I won’t regret anything,” I tell her, which is true.
“Get the Thunderstorm. I want to try it.”
I could point out that I wanted to try her cotton candy last weekend, but instead I order our drinks and when the bartender goes to make them, I lean an elbow on the bar and turn toward her. Kat pushes her glasses up and glances around, lips pressed together, like she’s nervous and trying not to show it. The song on the radio switches to Johnny Cash, and I lean in.
“Want to hear a joke?” I ask, settling my fingertips on her hip.
Kat gives me a very skeptical look.
“Do I?”
I can’t help but grin.
“What happens when you play a country song backward?”
Kat considers the question carefully, her eyes narrowing, her lips moving as she thinks.
“You summon a country demon?” she finally guesses, and I laugh.
“Not quite,” I tell her. “You get your wife back, you get your dog back, you get your truck back…”