Free The Turning Season by Sharon Shinn Page A

community at large, but he would not rest until he built a place where I could live in safety. I think the first time I ever saw him relax was the day Janet officially opened her doors to clients.
    â€œSo, no brothers or sisters, either?” Joe is asking.
    I shake my head. “No. I have a couple of cousins, but they don’t live in Barrington anymore. So I haven’t been back to Chicago in—maybe five years? Wow, long time.” I focus on him. “How about you? Family in Joliet?”
    He nods. “Couple of brothers, both married, both have kids. My dad’s dead, my mom’s remarried, everybody seems pretty happy.”
    I resettle myself against the brick, trying to get more comfortable. “Sometimes that makes it harder,” I remark. “When everyone else seems to be doing great, and you’re the only one who’s still trying to figure it out.”
    That makes him grin. “Yeah, and my younger brother was always the screwup. I was always the one who got it right the first time. But now I’m just—” Joe spreads his hands to indicate his incomplete life. “And he’s got the great job and the great kids.”
    â€œGreat wife?” I ask.
    The grin grows wider. “Nah, she’s a ballbuster. But
he
seems to like her, so I guess that’s all that matters.”
    â€œSo you go up for birthdays, holidays, that sort of thing?”
    â€œYeah, or football games or whatever. We’re tight.”
    I’m trying to think of a polite way to ask if he’s made any friends in Quinville—because, if he’s lived here a year and he
hasn’t
, he’s a pretty lost soul—when the music changes from some mournful Coldplay number to the grinding rev-up of “Footloose.” I almost squeal.
    â€œI
love
this song,” I say. He’s a total stranger and I’m standing outside on the sidewalk, but I can’t keep my feet still. I’m practically dancing in front of the bouncer in the doorway of Arabesque.
    But he doesn’t think I’m a dork, or if he does, he’s one, too, because he’s raised his hands and is making syncopated gestures along with the chorus. He’s grinning broadly and mouthing the words along with the band. I’ve actually started singing, though I’m keeping my voice low, but I’ve shoved myself wholly away from the wall and now I’m starting to act out the lyrics and shake my ass a little more. He pushes up from the stool and gets his feet and shoulders into it, and pretty soon there’s no way to pretend we’re
not
dancing together, right here in front of the club. Celeste would die if she saw me, but I’m having too much fun to stop.
    The song comes to its abrupt crescendoing conclusion and we both freeze in exaggerated poses, then burst out laughing. “Hey, that was fun,” he says. “Sitting out here, I never get to dance.”
    â€œYou like to dance? Most guys hate it.”
    â€œI always think I don’t till the music starts.”
    â€œThat’s how
I
feel!”
We’re twins,
I think,
just like Ryan and Celeste.
    We both have our heads cocked toward the door, half hoping the band members will play another beat-driven tune, but it seems “Footloose” is how they ended their set. We can hear the distorted sound of the lead singer promising to be back in a few minutes, and then a Beyonce song starts issuing from the speakers inside. Joe makes a face.
    â€œ
This
isn’t my kind of music.”
    Before I can answer, the door opens and people start streaming out into the night. Most of them are smokers, their cigarettes between their lips before they’re even out of the building. Quinville passed a no-smoking ordinance a couple years ago, and people are still complaining, but it doesn’t seem to have hurt business here in the Square.
    A few of them are couples who have come outside to argue or make out.