Page 22 of Into the Deep Blue

The Narwhal reveals itself from a sea of towering redwoods, like a secret between the trees.

We get out of the car, and Carly peels off, leaving us in a cloud of dust. Nick watches it fade from view and turns to face the bar.

“So, this is it, huh?”

A few pickup trucks line the mostly empty lot. Christmas lights are still strung around the weathered porch, and the outline of a crooked narwhal flashes above the entrance in blue neon. The horn is burnt out. Unlike the picture from Google, this narwhal has arms that are moving, pointing to the entrance with every flash of light. This must be a new addition.

I pull out my phone and take a picture.

“It’s a little creepy, right?”

Nick glances around. The wind rustles through the trees and the faint sounds of laughter filter through the air from inside. “Nooo,”

he says, but then a smile breaks.

“It’s definitely a vibe. It’s like we’ve been dropped into a dream sequence.”

“Like this is one of those old saloons where someone walks in, and all the cowboys pull their guns out?”

“Yeah. Or a drug house in the middle of a deal, and they pull their guns out.”

I face him.

“You’re so contemporary.”

“It’s like we’ve been beamed down, so there, I’m also futuristic.”

He takes a step forward and when I don’t move, he reaches for my hand and leads me to the entrance.

“We’ll just stay for a drink.”

“They’re not going to serve us.”

Nick tilts his head to the side.

“Ninety-nine percent sure no one will care.”

He keeps hold of my hand as we go in, tapping the back of it with his thumb. He’s just as nervous as I am.

A sorry-looking group of locals sit at the bar and some obvious tourists are seated in booths.

When the host notices us, she abandons her animated conversation at a table nearby and walks over. Her hair is a wild heap of strawberry curls, and a blue gingham shirt is tied around her waist.

“Evening. How y’all doing?”

she asks with a southern drawl.

“Here for dinner?”

“Drinks, but we don’t know, maybe?”

Nick turns back to me, and I give the smallest shake of my head.

“Drinks,” he says.

“No problem, if you change your mind, just holler. You can take a seat over there, and I’ll be right with you.”

She points to a booth along the side of the room.

A big screen TV hangs above the bar playing the baseball game Dad must be watching at home. Some guy’s on a stool with his ass crack on full display and a mug of foamy beer in front of him. Turns out, The Narwhal isn’t even a charming dive. It’s a complete dump. I imagined some oasis filled with secrets about Mom. Reality is so disappointing.

We slide into the booth.

“This place is a shit hole,”

I say, leaning over the table.

He leans forward to meet me.

“It’s a giant shit hole.”

The host returns to take our order.

“I’ll have a frozen margarita, please.”

She eyes us both for a long minute as if she knows she could call us out, but she doesn’t.

Nick flips over the laminated drink menu.

“You know what, make that two.”

I poke his leg with my foot under the table when she leaves.

“You hate tequila.”

He scans the room.

“If there was ever a place to drink shitty tequila, I think this is it.”

“So? What do you think the deal was? Her album is full of pictures of this place.”

“Maybe she was high?”

The host drops off our drinks. I take a giant sip and make a face. It’s sickly sweet.

“Easy, tiger,”

Nick says.

“Excuse me,”

I call out after her. She turns around, and I give her a nervous smile.

“Do you know if the owner’s around?”

She eyes me, warily, like I’m about to jump up and serve her legal papers.

“You’re looking at her.”

“Oh. Hi.”

I glance at Nick, and he gives me an encouraging nod.

“My mom was here twenty years ago and photographed the bar. I know it’s a long shot, but any chance that rings a bell?”

Her eyes soften.

“I guess you can’t ask her?”

I shake my head, and somehow she understands.

“A lot of people come in here and take pictures. It’s kitschy that way. I wish I could help, but . . . ”

I sink back into the red vinyl. What was I thinking, wanting to come here.

“Thanks, anyway.”

Another customer waves for her attention, and she leaves.

I fiddle with my straw.

“This was a total waste.”

“Fi . . . ”

“Why do you think it meant so much to her?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she was with someone.”

He picks at the thick rim of salt on the edge of his glass.

“I kind of like the place. It’s got character. And the floor—”

He gestures to the hardwood.

“That has to be original.”

I nudge my head toward the guy on the bar stool.

“Happy ending him.”

“Who? Ass crack?”

“Yeah.”

Nick draws in a mouthful of slush from his drink. He points to the glass.

“You know, I feel like I’m on vacation with this.”

He steals a glance at ass crack and refocuses.

“It’s his birthday. He thinks his wife hates him, so he doesn’t want to go home, but she’s spent the whole day making a cake. It’s on the table right now, with candles lit, and she’s waiting for him to walk through the door so she can tell him how much she loves him.”

I nod.

“That’s sweet. You made him kind of endearing.”

“Meh. Not my best.”

And I have a brilliant idea. He can do Mom. He should do Mom.

“Second time’s the charm.”

“Second time?”

He takes his mouth off the straw and smiles, eyeing me curiously. He leans back against the booth, and his smile fades. He knows what I want.

“No,” he says.

“Come on.”

“No. No way. I am not touching that one.”

“You do it all the time!”

“No! It’s not the same as doing a stranger.”

“You’re not raising her from the dead.”

He shakes his head and downs more of his drink, but he’s thinking about it. He’s caving.

“Pleeease. You have to give me something. Don’t leave me with this place being just a shit hole.”

“Fiiiiiine. Okay.”

I could hug him. He takes in my beaming face and says.

“Don’t look at me.”

“Right. Sure.”

Nick wipes the salt from the corner of his mouth, licking it from his thumb. His fingers drum against the table as he focuses on a spot in the middle and blanks out. I’m watching him, even though he told me not to. Finally, he meets my eyes.

“Are you sure you want me to do this?”

“Yes!”

He rests his palms on the table and draws in a breath.

“It was raining. Coming down in sheets so hard she couldn’t see. She had to pull over for the night. Wound up in an empty motel with nothing to do. Across the street were these lights. A flickering narwhal. It seemed like a sign. It was a sign. So, she took her camera, ran over, and the rain stopped as if she crossed into another dimension. There were newlyweds inside. They eloped and were celebrating with strangers. She wanted to take pictures, but they stopped her. No one could know, they said. So she made them a deal. She’d take pictures of everything around them. The lights they danced under, the photos on the wall that watched over them, the stools they sat on when their arms were interlocked in a toast. The next morning, she couldn’t find their number, so she rushed back here, but the place was empty, as if none of it ever happened. So she kept the photos to remind her of what it is to live and love . . . ”

My eyes flood with tears. I look up and blink them away.

He notices and stops.

“Fi. I’m sorry. I’ll shut up.”

All I can do is stare at him. There are no words for what he’s given me.

I get up.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

He nods, his eyes heavy with regret.

Everything’s a blur as I hurry across the bar. I don’t know if it’s because of Nick or the tequila.

The bathroom door closes, and I lean against it. I close my eyes. I thought he’d come up with something short and sweet. I didn’t expect his words to hit me so hard. My face is flushed with heat, so I go to the sink, rinse my hands under the cool water, and press my chilled fingers to my cheeks. Breathe, .

When I come out, Nick is scrolling on his phone, his glass empty in front of him. What’s left of mine is a radioactive green now that the slush has melted.

The room smells of dishwasher tabs and stale bar food—artificial. The owner’s photos of her Airstream adventures cover the walls with images of happy faces, cookouts and driftwood. I follow a trail of them to the back where a glowing jukebox sits in the corner. I’m scanning the titles when the warm scent of sandalwood hits me—the soap at the motel. Nick is behind me. My senses are in overdrive. I don’t want to move and ruin this closeness, so I sway back ever so subtly until my shoulders press against his chest, and he doesn’t step away.

“Do you think she used this?” I ask.

“Of course she did. Who wouldn’t?”

he says softly.

The jukebox titles are a mix of classic oldies and nineties hits, and I wonder what Mom would have picked when coins clink in the machine.

Nick leans over me and punches two buttons. The familiar thuds o.

“Stand By Me”

fill the air.

“You think she played this?”

I glance over my shoulder at him.

“No. But at some point, the memory has to be yours.”

Everyone is staring. The guys at the bar scowl at us because the music is interrupting the game on TV.

“Who cares about them?”

Nick says, turning me away from the bar.

“Let’s just go.”

The pressure on my chest is building.

“Stand by Me”

is not on my side in this battle.

Nick takes my hand as I try to pass him and pulls me back.

“Dance with me.”

“What? Are you drunk?”

“I’m not even remotely drunk. Dance with me.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

We’re surrounded by empty tables. This place isn’t exactly set up for dancing. He steps closer and slides a hand around my waist, taking my hand in his. I’m embarrassed by the spectacle before realizing it’s not the prevailing feeling. This closeness, this contact. My other hand slides up his arm to his shoulder, and he pulls me closer. I rest my head on his chest, and he rests his chin on my head. We sway together that way.

“I don’t think people dance like this anymore,” I say.

“I wouldn’t know.”

Nick strokes the small of my back with his thumb.

“Get a room!”

Ass crack yells.

“We have one, thanks,”

Nick calls out, pulling away from me. He flashes me a smile, his eyes, waves of blue.

“You ready?”

“Yeah.”

He goes back to our booth to pay the bill. “Fi.”

He waves me over.

“Check this out.”

As he steps to the side, I notice a framed photo hanging on the wall just above the booth behind us. We didn’t see it earlier because people were sitting there. I inch closer. It’s blurry, but I think it’s them—Mom and Dad.

I look at Nick.

“Do you think?”

“Solid chance.”

He glances around, then plucks the photo from the wall, and tucks it into my bag. He grabs my hand, and we hurry toward the exit. I’m expecting someone to stop us, but nobody does.

The faint thuds o.

“Stand by Me”

follow us outside. We stand side by side on the hilltop, shrouded in a gauzy blue haze. My mind is adrift in a sea of stars, stuck somewhere between past and present, reality and fiction. I’m so lost in my thoughts, I don’t even notice the Uber approaching.

I only know it’s here because Nick squeezes my hand.

I look down.

He never let it go.