As I thumb between my bank account, a plane ticket website, and the online marketplace where I just listed my apartment for sublease, the baby bartender leans her elbows on the glossy wood top and peers at me. “You okay?” she asks after I’ve made meaningfully prolonged eye contact with the Lone Star flag in the corner.Ask me what I’m thinking!eye contact.
Also, I’d been crying off and on every ten minutes before sliding into the denial stage of grief, which had to have been disconcerting. “I moved here for my boyfriend yesterday. He cheated on me, broke up with me oh, thirty minutes ago, and fired me from what I thought was our company but, surprise, completely belongs to him.”
The bartender’s eyes widen. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. Well, no. I’m pretty sure I’m in shock. But kind of a fun shock where I want to move away so quickly that his head spins?” It feels good to name the emotion. Strong. See what a head can do without its heart!
“Would tequila help?”
“No thank you.” I wave my phone. “Lots of planning to do.”
“Word. Let me know if you change your mind.” She starts wiping down glasses, and the methodical rub-setdown, rub-setdown does a wonder on the my-life-is-over jitters. “What all do you have to do?”
“At the moment, just get someone to rent my apartment so I can afford a plane ticket back and a hotel for when I get there. He locked me out of the company email and server, where all our files are.” I pause, needing a moment after voicing that new truth. “So I have no clue what I’ll do once I’m back in D.C., but anything is better than staying here.” My jaw is spring-loaded tight. I rub at my cheek and let my shoulders fall. “Sorry. I’m sure this town is cute when your life isn’t in pieces.”
My new therapist gives me a sympathetic smile. “Don’t apologize. Men are dogs. If I could date women, I’d be out.”
“I have and they still got me.”
She laughs.“Dogs.”
She starts to ask another question, only for the bell above the door to jingle and her customer-service instincts to kick in. “Welcome to The Affair,” she chirps at the newcomer, and I’m reminded once again that The Affair is the worst name for a bar in the history of broken pool tables and buzzy neon lighting.
The newcomer sits three creaky stools down from me, and suddenly the bartender is all smiles, the glow on her cheeks her veryown neon sign blinkingpermanently distracted.So much for being the nicest person here all day. “Hey!” she says. “Didn’t think you were coming in.”
“Don’t tell anyone.”
Swiveling with a very-subtle creak, I peek at the person. Guy. Blond. His face is in profile, but wow, what a treat. He’s all angles, nose and forehead and chin and oh my God, it’s Arthur Bianco.
I swiftly swivel away.
But we’re still the only two patrons in this bar. When he speaks, it’s to me. “Damn, Graywood. Didn’t think you’d be hitting the bottle this early. I’m impressed.”
I could ignore him. I have things to do. Ample reasons to not engage.
“It’s just coffee,” I mutter.
He snorts. “You’re at a bar at nine in the morning and you’re drinking coffee?”
“Exactly? Are you saying you’renotdrinking coffee?”
I can feel his smarmy smile radiating through the air. “Oh, I was going to get blackout drunk.”
My nose wrinkles with disgust. “Charming. And then what?”
“Carmen here”—he nods to the bartender—“was going to be the absolute doll she is and give me a ride to work, where my drunkenness was going to horrify you into quitting the documentary. Great scheme for me, since I get to have breakfast beer. Or, hm, a morning Aperitivo?”
I bark out a laugh. I can’t help it; it’s ahorribleplan from top to bottom, considering that he’s a professional athlete and can’t rock up to his cubicle buzzed, hoping Human Resources doesn’t notice. But then my attention snaps over to Arthur’s face, or more accurately, his eyes, and I search for the inappropriate-laughter anger that should be there. Will be there. I’m literally laughing at him.
Only it’s not there. “See? It would’ve worked,” he says, eyes gleaming at his own joke. “You hate me already.”
“I don’t think about you enough to hate you,” I reply. “But dislike? Yes. You’re easy to dislike—”
“Aw, youdothink about me.”
“And you don’t need to worry much longer about having me around, by the way, so don’t go getting drunk and blaming me.”
Arthur leans toward me with a barstoolcre-ee-eeakthat screams for attention. “You’re leaving? Why?”
