Who's the Blonde Stranger (on Broadway)?

It’s the first big reception of the week -- one of those loud, university-conference parties where the music is just a little too high and everyone keeps their badge visible to signal “I’m supposed to be here” and not “I’m here for the free drinks.”

Courtney pauses at the bottom of the stairs inside the piano bar, clutching her half-finished cocktail like it’s a prop in a play she hasn’t rehearsed. It’s her first night in Nashville, first night of the conference, and she already feels that familiar isolation of being the only one from her school -- that odd mix of invisibility and exposure.

She scans the room. The pianists are leaning too hard into “Sweet Caroline,” the crowd swaying on autopilot. She almost turns back toward the stairs. But then she sees them -- a small group near the corner, laughing easily, unguarded. They don’t look like they’re networking. One of them, tall, brown-haired with a salt-and-pepper beard and leather boots that somehow look deliberate, glances her way. He looks approachable, the way someone does when they’re not trying to be.

Okay, she thinks, taking a breath. You came here to meet people, not to hide behind a name badge.

Her heels click softly as she crosses the floor. She can feel her pulse in her throat -- not nerves exactly, more like stage fright. Still, there’s a flicker of curiosity that wins out over caution. She gives herself ten minutes, one drink, and permission to leave if it’s weird.

When she reaches the group, the tall guy’s smile reaches his eyes, and the tension she didn’t know she was carrying drops an inch.

I’m standing with Evan and Marcy in the piano bar, half-listening to Evan explain -- for the third time -- how Marcy almost missed their flight, when I notice her drifting our way. She’s scanning faces -- not in a lost, nervous way, more like she’s deliberately choosing.

She’s tall. I’m about six-one in boots and she’s five-ten, maybe a little more. Dirty blonde hair, wavy, past the shoulders. Light brown eyes to match, clear and direct, not hiding that she’s doing a quick assessment of each of us like, “can any of you not be weird? Please?”

And then she smiles.

That’s the first thing that actually hits me. Her smile is wide and open, with perfect white teeth, and it’s one of those smiles you feel immediately as warmth -- like walking into a bar with the heat blowing after being outside in December. I catch myself smiling back before I even realize I’m doing it.

“Okay,” she says, announcing herself more than introducing herself. “So. I don’t have anybody here. I sat through dinner alone and I decided that’s pathetic. Can I just...?” She gestures toward our little circle with her drink.

“Yeah, of course,” Marcy says. “Get in here.”

“Thank you,” the woman says, exhaling like she’s been holding her shoulders up for an hour. “I’m Courtney.”