Golden Hour

Lonely's (Pt 2)

CHAPTER 8: LONELY'S (Pt. 2)

You're as smooth as Tennessee whiskey
You're as sweet as strawberry wine
You're as warm as a glass of brandy,
And honey I stay stoned on your love all the time.

(Tennessee Whiskey, Chris Stapleton)

CONTENT WARNING: ALCOHOL / DRINKING

WEDNESDAY
ALICE

Jasper pulls me towards the checkered dance floor, a look in his eyes I'm hooked on.

"You're pretty smooth for a country boy," I manage, my voice surprisingly confident considering how terrified I am.

This really isn't happening. It can't be happening.

Yes. If I'm being honest — yes, of course I want this. I want to experience the thrill of falling into Jasper headfirst. I want to weave myself into the electricity that flows between us. I want to plant myself in his life and see what grows.

I want a grand, life-changing kind of romance.

There's so much I want.

But more than that, I know what I need. Consistency. Stability. My Family. My home. None of which exist in Texas.

So I know — I'm sure — that there's nothing we can make of this. All this will ever is a drunken night shared between relative strangers. It's all I can allow. Because when I wake up Monday morning, I'll be alone. Just like I was the Monday before, and just like I'll be the Monday next. I'll be alone — in New York — and Jasper will be here, in Texas. That's reality.

Regardless, I convince myself that I'll be fine — that one dance with Jasper won't change anything between us. I can keep my head up above the water. I can get through this night — and this week — without leaving a piece of myself with this man.

I follow Jasper out to the edge of the crowd, drawn forward by the brightness of his smile and the tequila coursing through my veins.

It's a stupid decision.

The moment Jasper's hand land on my waist, I'm lost; my rock solid constitution more like pudding in his capable grip.

He chuckles at me, flashing pearly white teeth, and I just fall further and further. I laugh in return and then I'm spun around — twice! — before Jasper pulls me back against his chest. I can feel the heat radiating off his body, and the music vibrating through us both. It's a kind of connection I could get drunk on.

I move up onto the balls of my feet, trying to stretch myself taller so I can speak to Jasper over the roaring music. "Where'd you learn how to dance?" I ask him.

Jasper shakes his head. The hand he has on my upper back pulls me closer; close enough so I can hear him say, "you think I know what I'm doin'?"

I laugh again.

The song keeps going — upbeat and twangy — and Jasper and I keep on coming up with creative ways to get our hands back on each other. He catches my hand time and time again, to spin me around, or pull me closer, or to lead me around in some uncoordinated routine.

When the music changes, I half expect Jasper to let me go, or pull me back towards the table. He doesn't. Instead, he walks further into the crowd, pulling me along with him. We lose ourselves in a sea of plaid and jean, becoming one with the rushing current of bodies.

There's a lot less room for spinning here.

I ease my way into Jasper's grip, letting myself be fully enveloped by those strong arms of his. My hands land on his chest, only inches away from the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of his heart. I can feel him — that part that is so vitally Jasper — beating away, stronger and more sure than the bass shaking the floor under our feet.