Who's the Blonde Stranger (on Broadway)?
Copyright© 2025 by MarkStory
Chapter 2: Tuesday
By Tuesday, she’s ours.
It just sort of happens. I see her a few random times during the day, and she favors me with that brilliant smile every time. She texts Marcy mid-morning -- I find this out later, after Marcy very smugly tells me, “She asked for my number, not yours, which means I’m the favorite, sorry about your life” -- and asks what we’re doing after sessions.
(I don’t mention that Courtney and I had already exchanged emails and numbers the night before. It’s not exactly a secret, but it feels like one -- a small, private spark I’m not ready to hold up to the light. Maybe it’s harmless. Or maybe it’s the kind of secret you know you shouldn’t have, even when nothing’s technically wrong. I tell myself it’s just friendliness -- but even that feels like a line I’m suddenly aware of.)
What we’re doing, it turns out, is Broadway.
It’s always Broadway. Every conference in Nashville eventually devolves into a slow migration down that neon spine -- boots and bachelorette sashes and pedal taverns full of people you hope don’t work where you work. We lean into it.
We pick her up in the lobby of her hotel, one of those sleek new ones that smells like lemon polish and ambition. She’s in jeans and sneakers and a soft black top with a v-neck that doesn’t try too hard. Her hair’s down and a little wild. When she sees us, she breaks into that same big smile and gives a little wave, like she’s genuinely happy we showed up.
“You’re really walking Broadway in those again tonight?” she says, nodding at my boots.
“They’ve handled worse,” I tell her. “They were my dad’s. He bought them fifty years ago.”
Her expression softens. “That’s incredible,” she says. “Then they’re basically family heirlooms. Don’t you dare let the puddles win.”
“Thank God you guys actually showed up,” she continues, hugging each of us in turn. “I was five minutes away from going to bed at 8:30 and pretending I’m ‘investing in sleep hygiene.’”
“You’re with us,” Marcy says, looping an arm through hers like they’ve been friends for years. “We’re here to corrupt you and your sleep hygiene.”
“And I,” I say, “am just here for moral support.”
Courtney looks at me. “Uh-huh,” she says. “Sure you are, Eric.”
That’s the first time she says my name like that -- low, familiar, a little teasing. I feel it in my chest more than in my ears.
Later, at one of the rooftop bars, Courtney tells me her mom was convinced I was about to spike her drink or “get handsy,” as she put it. Courtney laughs hard enough to nearly spill her cup. My heart skips a beat as I can’t help imagining “getting handsy” with her.
“So,” she says, eyes bright, “congratulations. You passed the Mom Test. You did neither.”
“Do I get a sticker?” I ask.
“You get to keep hanging out with me,” she says sweetly. “That’s your prize.”
Our calendar that night is ridiculously full of receptions -- those “customer appreciation” parties that all blur together after a while. We hit half a dozen before the freebies dry up around ten.
Courtney’s about to head back to her hotel when I remind her that Jon Bon Jovi opened a new bar on Broadway. Her eyes light up -- we’d talked about it the night before, and she’d confessed her soft spot for ‘80s rock. So the five of us -- Evan, Marcy, Courtney, me, and a newer guy from another department -- stumble out into the cool, misty night toward JBJ’s.
“Wait,” she says, stopping us under a red neon guitar. A little mist still hangs in the air -- that silver kind that never quite turns to rain. “Hold up. What is this?”
I look down, thinking I’ve spilled something on myself.
She means the tattoo on my inner right forearm -- a shark fin breaking the waves, bubbles swirling around it, the words bubbles up in small script below.
“Oh,” I say, glancing down. “Bubbles Up.”
She looks delighted. Actually delighted. “Shut up,” she says, touching it lightly with two fingers like it’s a museum exhibit. “You did not.”
“It’s new,” I say. “Well, new-ish.”
“Last year,” Marcy supplies helpfully.
“Of course it is,” Courtney says softly. “God. Of course it is.”
We’re both Parrotheads. We find that out right then -- how much we both loved Jimmy Buffett, how hard we both took it when he died, how loaded that lyric is now. The conversation stops being small talk and dives straight into memory, music, and belonging.
“That song wrecked me,” she says. Her voice drops. “Like, wrecked me. I was in my kitchen, ugly crying, which is ... not my brand. I usually cry in a classy way, in a bathroom with good lighting.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Same here.”
The street hums beneath us, rain whispering off the awnings. For a moment neither of us speaks, just standing there in that shared recognition -- the kind that makes you feel like you’ve known someone longer than you have.
I break the silence first. “Hey, you know there’s a tribute band playing here Thursday night? They’re called Boat Drinkers. A traveling jam band covering Buffett songs. Playing at Ole Red.”
Her face lights up. “Are you serious? That sounds amazing.”
“Yeah. I only found it because I’m here an extra night. Figured I’d check it out.”
“Ugh,” she says, groaning, half smiling. “I’m flying out Thursday morning.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, mock-casual. “You’d love it.”
“Don’t tell me that,” she says, laughing. “Now you’ve ruined my responsible travel plans.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But responsibility is overrated.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine. “You’re dangerous, Eric.”
“Nah, I’m sweet.”
“I mean that as a compliment,” she adds, smiling, and the mist turns to the faintest drizzle again, blurring the lights on Broadway behind her as we head for Bon Jovi’s.
We go upstairs first to claim a table, because Evan is nursing a beer and claiming his feet hurt “from innovation.” There’s a cover band doing very committed 80s rock. Courtney is in heaven, and I’m right there with her. As much as I love the country sounds of Nashville, at heart, I’m a rock and roll guy, and the ‘80s is my decade.
“I want fringe,” she tells Marcy, looking at a woman across the bar in a rhinestone denim jacket. “Why don’t I own fringe?”
“You’re a manager,” Marcy says. “Managers don’t get fringe.”
Courtney gasps and puts a hand to her chest. “Wow,” she says. “Academically violent.”
I’m half-listening, half-watching her. The lighting here is kind to her -- all warm, flattering amber tones. Her cheeks are a little flushed from the last place. She’s relaxed now, really relaxed, shoulders down, smile easy. It makes me weirdly happy to see her like that.
She asks me to dance
And says keep your boots on...
After a few songs, she leans over to me. “We’re going downstairs,” she says.
“We are?”
“We are. They’re playing something I can dance to down there, and I’m not wasting it. I never get to dance. Come on.”
I glance at Evan and Marcy. Marcy waves us off with a knowing grin that makes me feel both exposed and mildly betrayed. They’re both distracted watching tourists attempt -- and mostly fail -- to stay on the mechanical bull, anyway.
Downstairs is louder, tighter, hotter. The sound hits like a wall. The band dives into the bassline of “Centerfold,” and Courtney turns to me, already moving, already singing along.
“Okay,” she says, leaning close enough that her mouth is near my ear. “Rule is we are not looking for our friends. They’re upstairs. We’re downstairs. Everybody’s happy.”
“That’s the rule?” I say.
“That’s the rule,” she says, smiling up at me.
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