A retort struggles to climb up my esophagus.
He leans in just a smidge, enough for his minty breath to feather over my face. “If I was flirting with you, you’d know.”
Heel, girl!
I steer my head away to hide the growing blush on my cheeks. Would I mind this mystery guy taking me in the bathroom and bending me over the sink? No. Do I think there’s a good chance of that happening tonight? Definitely not.
“So, what’s the real reason you’re here?” he finally asks, and the pain of the night returns.
I’ve found that when people ask how you’re doing, a lot of times they don’t really care how you answer. They only ask to be polite.
So I do the stupid thing and answer him truthfully, because I’m never going to see him again, and I need to get this weight off my chest before I shatter into a million pieces.
Poor guy. I’m not even giving him a chance to run.
Tears slather my cheeks with a warm wetness that intermingles with the spoiled air. “My brother. He, um, died seven years ago. His name was Roden. He was dealing with a lot mentally, and I didn’t get him the help he needed.”
I don’t bother looking over, nor do I bother with wiping the snot on my face. I don’t tell many people about what happened to Roden. One, I don’t like to relive it. Two, it’s not my story to tell. When my grandmother on my mother’s side passed away, the kids in elementary school only said one thing to me, and that was “I’m sorry.” I get it. I mean, there’s really no perfect way to respond to that.
But “sorry” is an empty word. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a placeholder that people use because they could not possibly imagine what it’s like to lose a best friend, a platonic soulmate, or the only other person in the universe who understands you. It was me and Roden against the world—against my parents. So color me surprised when the first word out of this stranger’s mouth isn’t the S-word.
“My mother died of cancer when I was eight.”
Are we sharing sob stories with each other? I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that. Shit, I can’t say the S-word now.
“She was my best friend. She was also the best person I’ve ever met. She was caring and kind, and it was hard seeing her grow sicker. I wish I could’ve given her the life that she gave me. And I know we’re strangers, but I’m all too familiar with that guilt you’re describing—that feeling that it should’ve been you instead.”
“It feels like you’re rubbing it in their face by being alive…like you’re disrespecting them by moving on. I always feel guilty when I’m happy, because I know Roden wasn’t for the majority of his life.”
“That’s valid, and even though I didn’t know your brother, I think he’d want you to live your life and be happy.”
He orders a shot for himself and downs it, but given his size, I don’t think it’s gonna do anything for him.
I blow a rebellious curl out of my eyes and nod, wanting to leave the hotseat as soon as possible.
“Is your dad in the picture?” I inquire.
A tight breath hurls out of him, his upper body tensing. “No. Richard, or more suitably, Dick, is the bane of my existence. Let’s just say he won’t be winning any Father of the Year awards. What about your dad?” he asks.
“I’m pretty much in the same boat as you. My dad is a misogynistic piece of shit. And my mom, well, she’s emotionally MIA. They were never there for my brother. I was the only support he had.”
I stave the emotion fogging up my eyes. I don’t want to get into the gritty details, so I pivot the conversation back to him. “Do you have any siblings?”
His mouth rights itself into a smile. “I have a sister named Faye. She’s on the other side of the country right now going to college at UPenn. She’s smart, hardworking, and a way better person than I’ll ever be. She’s studying early childhood education so that when she graduates, she can work with kids.”
“Wow. She sounds amazing,” I admit in awe, running my finger along the rim of my empty shot glass.
“She really is.”
My teeth touch as the tiny flutters stampeding through me metamorphosize into eagle-sized butterflies. “I don’t think you’re right, though. About being a bad person,” I add meekly.
His eyebrows bounce up. “I didn’t say I was a bad person.”
“It was implied.”
“Uh-huh. And how do you know I’m not a bad person?”
“I don’t know. I guess…I just get this feeling.”
He chuckles, and it’s an addicting symphony in my ears. It’s what I imagine heaven sounds like if it could be bottled and brought down to Earth.
“Do you live nearby? Maybe I should take you home,” he offers, splaying the back of his hand to my forehead. “Yeah, you’re a little flushed.”
If I was in my right mind, I’d never agree to go to a second location with a stranger. But I’m not in my right mind. Hell, if the world has plans for me to get murdered tonight, then so be it.
The alcohol is starting to curdle in my stomach, and I can taste bile bleeding into my throat.
“I live a few blocks away,” I reply, nearly tumbling face-first into his lap when I try to push myself out of my seat. He steadies me by the waist, and sparks crackle over my skin from his touch.
“Can you walk?” he rumbles, doing his best not tighten his grip too much. His hands cover a large portion of my sides, with his extended thumb brushing the underwire of my bra. I’m half-aware that he’s close to touching my tits right now, and so is he, because he’s averting his eyes.
I nod, apparently having reverted to my cavewoman vocabulary. Without another word, Mystery Guy is sweeping me out of the doors of the bar.
BEER BEFORE LIQUOR, NEVER…
HAYES
When my boys told me to scope out Mickey’s, I was immediately approached by a handful of girls who knew my name. But as attractive as they were, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the lonely girl at the bar. Even with that dark parasol hanging over her, she caught my attention the moment I stepped into the place.
Autumn-colored ringlets fall softly in place on the middle of her back, her bangs framing a round face. Her eyes are dark, slathered in kohl that clings to the crescents of her lids and rides the length of luscious, dark lashes. She has a soft jawline and cherubic cheeks. And if my eyes don’t deceive me, I can make out a few faint freckles that bridge over her nose.
I don’t mean to unnerve her, but I can’t stop staring at her body. She has curves in all the right places. Her cleavage is spilling out of her too-small top—one that I admire with a half-lidded gaze—and the hem of it ends just above her navel, where a sliver of tantalizing stomach extends into the waistband of her jeans. Did I mention she has a belly button piercing?
Outside the bar, I’m glad for the nightly chill that seems to be reining in my rising body temperature. The sky is a shawl of endless space, save for the milky stars that hang over our heads like sandbags. Moonlight filters in from the leaves above, casting its opalescent brilliance across overgrown vegetation in little streams.