Page 37 of The Maverick
Tasha was quiet for a moment.
"What's his name?"
"Tommy."
"Tommy what?"
"I don't know."
She looked at me.
"I know he's from Valentine, Texas," I said. "He's a consultant. He's tall. He carries guitar strings in his pocket and he restrings faster than most people and he doesn't fill silences when he doesn't have to, which almost nobody knows how to do."
"And you don't know his last name?”
"We didn't exactly—it didn't come up."
She nodded slowly, the nod of a woman processing information and finding it both insufficient and interesting.
"Is he coming back?" she said.
“I told him to come find me at The Carolinian." I paused. "I said if he tips well, maybe I'd buy the donuts next time."
Tasha stared at me.
"You said that?”
"I said that."
"Rebecca." She uncurled from the sofa and stood up with her mug. "I need you to know that is the most forward thing I have ever heard you say, especially to a man."
"I know."
"Are you okay?"
"I don't know."
She came into the kitchen and stood beside me at the counter and we looked out the window at the live oak together for a moment.
"Is he good-looking?" she said.
I thought about the jaw. The creek-water eyes. The way he'd crouched on the restaurant floor like it was the most natural thing and his hands had known exactly what they were doing with my guitar.
"Unreasonably," I said.
She made a sound that wasn't quite a word.
"The kind that makes you feel like you should double-check that he's actually talking to you," I said. "Like there must be someone behind you he's addressing."
"Oh, no."
"Yeah."
"Rebecca."
"I know."
I went to my room after that.
