Page 19 of Caught in a Storm

She’s starting to like Natty Boh, as opposed to just tolerating it—the way it burns the back of her throat.

By the time the band finishes setting up, the bar is more crowded. A few people have noticed her, but they’re being chill about it, which Margot appreciates. The band’s drummer—one of the two girls, it turns out—keeps glancing over but pretending not to. When someone young recognizes her, it’s either because they’re a musician or obsessed with Lawson.

Beth slaps the bar and shouts, “Gustavo!” Then she says, “And Billy Perkins, is that you?”

Billy Perkins? The name registers, and by the time Margot turns, she remembers. The guy from the record shop is standing wide-eyed next to a man she also recognizes, the guy at the pretzel stand across the street, Hot Twist. Margot wonders if she’s in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

“You,” says Billy. “You’re…here.”

“What the hell?” says Margot. “Did you foll—”

“No,” he says. “I live here.”

“You live in a bar?”

“No, I…”

“He lives above Charm City Rocks,” says Beth. “Billy, do you know Margot Ha…”

Moments like these lead to so many half sentences and trail-offs. “Hi, Beth,” Billy says. “We met earlier. And I wasn’t following you. This…this is my neighborhood. We came for a drink.”

Margot thinks about this. It checks out. She left, and now she’s back, and apparently Baltimore is the smallest goddamn city in America.

“I’m Gustavo.” The guy with the beard holds out his hand, which is warm, and he smells like butter and salt.

“What are you doing here?” asks Billy.

“She’s drinking some Bohs, that’s what she’s doing,” says Beth.

“Oh…really?” says Billy. “Bohs, like, plural? That’s…do you like them?”

“Oh, stop being such a snob,” says Beth. “Should I get you one of your fancy IPAs, Your Majesty?”

Billy says yes, and Beth gets him and Gustavo beers. She doesn’t ask specifics, she just knows what they want, and for some reason, maybe because she’s mildly intoxicated, Margot finds this funny. They’re regulars here; she’s wandered into these people’s lives. “You live above that record shop?” she asks. “The one from today?”

“His place is really cool,” says Gustavo.

Billy seems embarrassed. Margot can tell the two are friends, he and Gustavo, the way they talk to each other with their eyes, and Gustavo turns to the band, which is about to start. “These guys are pretty good. You should check them out.”

“Looks like you wanted a beer after all,” Billy says.

“Several, apparently,” says Margot. “It’s been a…a day.”

“Can I buy you another one?” he asks. “Maybe one that doesn’t taste like barbed wire and clinical depression?”

“Wow, you really are a snob,” says Margot. And then she sees Neil Diamond’s smoldering eyes on his chest. She points, fully prepared to have her suspicions confirmed. “By the way, what’s your favorite song by him? Just answer, don’t think.”

“Oh,” he says, clearly thinking. “Probably ‘Solitary Man.’ ”

Margot was about to take a sip of her beer, but she stops. “ ‘Solitary Man’?”

“I think Neil’s best when he’s a little dark, you know.”

So does Margot. She resumes that sip, surprised to be surprised.

Beth leans on the bar between them. “What are you talking about, you idiot? It’s ‘Sweet Caroline’ all the way. My sister threw her bra at Neil once while he was singing it at the Verizon Center down in D.C. Almost got us kicked out. Apparently, you’re not supposed to do that. Which is bullshit. I mean, how could you not toss your underwear at that man?”

Then, without comment or introduction, the band opens with a loud, uneven cover of a Killers song. Margot and her odd new group of pals watch. The drummer girl and the bass-player guy are messy, lagging on the downbeat, and the dude singing sounds like he needs to clear his throat. The lead guitarist knows her shit, though.