And I listened to her cum during a spontaneous phone call last night.
I’m not that guy. I’ve spent years telling myself I’m not that guy. And why would she want me anyway?
My stomach twists so hard I almost gag.
I shake my head, focusing my attention back to finishing up prep, folding down barstools, wiping a sticky ring left from the earlier shift, when the front door gives a soft jingle.
Derek Reeves steps inside, with Caleb tucked against his side.
Thank God, a distraction.
We met at a grief support group in Opal Springs. Derek’s older, sure, but he looked like a man who’d seen fire too, not the kind that leaves scars on the skin, but the kind that burns through your life and leaves you standing in the smoke, wondering what the hell comes next.
We didn’t talk much that first night. Hejust sat beside me with his arms crossed, jaw clenched, staring at the wall. When the facilitator asked if anyone wanted to share, I felt his tension in my own shoulders.
Different stories. Same kind of loss.
I think that’s why he comes here. Not for the drinks, he barely finishes one. It’s the company without the pressure to speak. Just another man trying to breathe among the pieces of his past.
And sometimes, knowing someone else is carrying their own ghosts is enough to make yours feel a little lighter.
I shake away my recollection of the time we first met and watch them both saunter up to the bar counter.
He still has that stiff firefighter posture, even in jeans and a T-shirt. Caleb clutches a dinosaur toy under one arm, his small feet scuffing the wood as he tries to imitate his dad’s silent swagger.
“You’re early,” I say, tossing a towel over my shoulder.
Derek tries to answer. His mouth shapes the word“Yeah”, but it comes out clipped.
“Y—ah.”
He grimaces, his jaw tightening briefly, then raises his hand and signs a simple shrug.
I act like I overlooked his stumble.
Caleb hops onto his favorite stool. “Daddy, let me pick the music in the truck!”
I nod. “Rebellious. I like it.”
Derek exhales quietly. His eyes are weary, constantly tired, but they soften when Caleb slams his dinosaur onto the bar with a loud bang.
I grab a Coke from the fridge, pour it into a plastic cup for Caleb, extra napkins because his hands are always sticky, then grab a ginger ale for Derek before he has to ask.
Sliding the ginger ale his way, he grunts with thanks, his lips forming to speak.
“Th… thanks.”
His words stumble, the sound stutters on the exit, but he forces it out anyway.
Speech apraxia is cruel; it happened after his accident, which cost him everything.
It doesn’t steal your voice; it allows you to hear every syllable clearly in your head, then turns against you when you try to speak.
“You’re good,” I say, wiping the counter down in steady circles.
Caleb kicks his legs, sipping loudly. “Daddy says he’s going back to work soon.”
Derek’s fingers tighten around his glass. He takes a breath, trying to formulate a whole sentence. “Cap…ta…in… he…want…”
