Page 5

I drove three blocks to a place that didn’t look like the food would kill me. If they had food. The street wasn’t too crowded, so I only had to park two shops down, in front of a barbershop that showcased fancy beards. Nice.

Walking down the sidewalk past a happy couple was an out-of-body experience. I’d been half of that couple. Why had I ever thought I could be like that? I couldn’t ever trust someone to love me.

I pushed through the door, releasing the sound of laughter and clinking glass. This was that kind of bar. A happy one, with people who were happy that they’d gotten off work and could relax with friends. I didn’t have friends. I shouldn’t be here. I belonged here less than I belonged in a relationship. I had kids. They were my life. They were home. What would they have for dinner?

I hesitated before I took a seat at the bar that had space on either side then pulled out my phone and ordered pizzas for the kids. After that, I texted Sage.

Pizza should be there in forty minutes. I love you.

Her text came quickly.

Pizza?! Awesome!

You see? Because this was usually lean protein and greens night, so pizza was exciting. If you let yourself always enjoy yourself, it wasn’t a treat. But it was always enjoying yourself. When was the last time I’d enjoyed myself? I liked playing duets with Sage on the piano. We’d been working on one of those old blues ballads. Her piano skills were getting so good. I’d started taking piano lessons when she started. You should be a good example to your children, not just develop their talents while neglecting yours. Which was why I’d taken so many classes over the years to follow my children’s interests. But what were my interests?

I sat at the bar, and my mind went blank. Nothing. I was a blank. An empty page that had been scribbled on by my children, but that I’d never made any kind of mark on. Even an ugly mark would’ve been something, but it was just…blank.

“Hey, honey, what can I get for you?” the bartender asked with a friendly—but not too friendly—smile. He had one of those ugly mullets that weren’t nearly as ugly as they’d been in the 80s, but that wasn’t saying anything. Men should be short-haired, neatly trimmed, like Clark.

I scowled at him. “Bourbon.”

His brows raised. “Bourbon?”

“With a sandwich. I can’t remember what was supposed to go with bourbon.” Because my mind was a blank after I’d accidentally thought about my husband’s grooming habits. It hurt like being stabbed thinking about him standing effortlessly at the sink with his razor, talking to me about his day and asking about mine. I’d never watch him shave again. What a stupid thing to miss.

The bartender slid a glass over the counter to me. “How about a Reuben? I’ll have Mark whip it up for you, but you look like you need something to take the edge off now.”

“I do? How do I look?” I touched my hair self-consciously. I’d fixed it this morning, right? Putting the subtle wave into the dark strands before I went to see Catherine?

He flashed another warm smile. “Gorgeous, but a little stressed. Don’t worry. I got you.”

I nodded and lifted the glass. Bourbon. I’d never had bourbon before. I didn’t drink as a rule. I’d gone to one college party and drank too much, which had resulted in a failed test the next morning. I hadn’t worked so hard to get scholarships to flunk out. That had cured me of party culture. And then I’d met Clark and gotten pregnant and family culture didn’t blend with drinking culture, particularly when I had several of my foster families as examples of what stellar parents alcoholism made. It was great that Gloria had quit drinking. Really great.

So why was I pressing the rim of the cool glass to my lip then tilting it back, letting the acerbic liquid spill over my tongue?

The shock of the taste, the strength of the stuff had me blinking and completely washed away the lingering thoughts of Clark or anything else. Ah. This was why people drank. I’d be fine tomorrow, but today…

I took another sip, focusing on the flavors—not really good, but interesting—while the bartender worked, pouring drinks, wiping down the counter, until he brought me a sandwich, nice, toasted, and smelling delicious.

I nibbled the sandwich and sipped my bourbon, like it was normal. After I finished my sandwich and only had a bit of bourbon in the glass, I could almost breathe. Then I got a text. Had the pizza gotten there?

Clark’s face popped up on the screen, smiling with those warm blue eyes surrounded by smile lines that made him look more accessible and kind. I gripped my phone too tight while I stared at his face and listened to the ringtone. I should answer it. I shouldn’t give him a heads-up until the papers were filed and the house was sold. Could I talk to him without losing it?

It sang again, ‘You’re All I Need to Get By,’ the ringtone I’d put in when I’d learned that song with Sage. I loved that song. I loved Clark. So much. Who would I be if I wasn’t his wife?

I clicked the button and raised the phone to my ear. “Hello?” I said, but I felt like someone else was speaking.

“Marigold. My flower. How is sweet Sage treating you? She texted me a picture of pizza. On a Tuesday night?” His voice was low, warm, silk with a flicker of rumble that made my spine tingle.

“I had to go out. Gloria’s married.”

He whistled. “The guy must be amazing. You’re at Gloria’s?”

“At a bar. I just ate a Reuben.”

“How was it?”

“Good for bar food. You? What did you have for dinner?” I was an alien on a different planet. Who was I? What were these sounds coming out of my mouth?