Meant To Be

Chapter thirty-two

Zac drove along the busy road lined with bright lights and buzzing bars. Streams of people flowing on either side. Ronnie rested her elbow upon the open window. The evening breeze warm and inviting as they moved deeper into the eclectic atmosphere that engulfed the city. The traffic lights changed from green to amber to red. They rolled to a stop. The radio presenter reading out constant requests for Tim McGraw. They began to move again. Ronnie glanced at Zac, his hand firm on the gear stick.

Zac pulled into the parking lot, reversing into the first empty space he saw. Shutting of the engine he got out. Ronnie did the same. She tugged at her white dress that flowed below her knee, reviewing the low cut. Zac could smell her sweet-scented perfume lingering from her clothes, noticing every part of her without losing her eyes. The flow of her hair, height of her breasts, curve of her hip. So different from Dena, it quietened the chaos inside of him as a stream of vehicles trickled past, the queue into the parking lot lengthening.

"We better get going. I can't be late to see Tim," said Ronnie. Zac agreed by putting one foot in front of the other, and they fell into step walking towards the Grand Ole Opry.

After the show, Zac and Ronnie drove into the heartbeat of Nashville. They parked the truck and walked downtown. The music flowed from the honky tonks dressing the street with lyrics. Ronnie led Zac into Robert's Western World wanting to sabotage nostalgia with the real thing. The place was narrow and long, overcrowded. They looked around for a table. An older woman with a classy, blonde bob stood up, offering Ronnie their spot. She and her husband were leaving. Their accents all the way from Brooklyn, New York.

"I'll get a couple of drinks, what do you want?" asked Zac.

"Amm...a beer please. Anyone will do."

A bubble of people danced at the foot of the stage feeding the dreams of the three-man band dressed in matching shirts, buckled belts and pointy boots. None of them looked older than thirty. Ronnie mapped their hands, their vacant wedding fingers making the women hollering at their feet tolerable. Zac returned with a pint of coke and beer. "You're not drinking? You can have one can't you?" Ronnie said as he set the drinks on the table. "It wouldn't put you over the limit?"

"I don't drink."

"At all?"

"Not anymore."

"You should have said. Now I feel bad for dragging you in here." Zac took a sip of his coke. "Do you want to leave?"

"Ronnie."

"We can go somewhere else?"

"Here is fine."

"We can-"

"Just because I don't drink alcohol doesn't mean I can't sit in a bar."

"Right, sorry," murmured Ronnie. Unable to think of something else to say as the heavy mood thickened, she pretended to care about the band. When the song ended, Zac asked why she came back to Tennessee.

"Does that matter to you?" she said harshly, her eyes narrowing. But Zac never spoke, giving Ronnie's rage time to finish. "I came back for me. That's all there is too it."

"Good for you," said Zac.

Ronnie search for the sarcasm but she couldn't find it, so she continued to stare, unable to figure him out. Zac acted ignorant, sipping on his coke. When the song changed, Ronnie placed an open hand on the table. "Come dance with me."

Ronnie paid no attention to how well Zac's hand fitted in hers, the pleasant heat passing through. She led him out onto the dancefloor. Under the shelter of the dim lights, he steered her into a standard twirl. Twos dotted across the dance floor. Zac pulled Ronnie close because it seemed to be the protocol. How close she was to his height calmed another internal storm. Ronnie curled her body cautiously against Zac, keeping an air of independence. And yet, their pairing seemed like the most natural thing to the outside world.