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I take out my phone and write a text. I can’t stop thinking about you. Every second, Katy, you’re on my mind. I wish I were a romantic so I could put it into words. I wish I could write you a goddamned poem, but I’ve never been the type.
Like a coward, I delete the message. If I can’t send her something like this via text, I’m not sure how I will ever be able to say it outright.
“Why so glum, chum?” one of the women says. Her accent is British.
I look up again. They’re close to my age, maybe a few years younger, dressed like they’re ready to hit the town hard. Lots of makeup, styled hair, and perfume wafting powerfully from them. I’m sure some men will find them interesting tonight, but I’m not one of them. Being interested in anybody but Katy seems impossible to me.
“You should tell her,” the American says, adjusting her hair. “She’s the nosiest Brit who’s ever lived, and that’s saying something.”
The British woman laughs. “Now that’s a fact.”
“I’m fine,” I grunt.
“Oh, come on…” The British woman leans forward, almost knocking over a glass a previous patron left there. With another glance—a more purposeful one—I realize both women are on something. They have that overfamiliar, talkative energy people get. “I was training to be a therapist once, but I quit. I got pregnant. Then the bastard left me, but that’s all in the past. My boy’s all grown up now. Come on, tell us. I bet we can help.”
“Really.” I grind my teeth, wondering if this is what so many people live for—bars, clubs, the weekend, going out and having pointless conversations with people who’ll never remember them anyway. Dammit, this mood’s coming in dark. “I’m—”
“Fine,” the British woman cuts in. “But you see, I can see that you’re not fine, and that pains me. I’m not hitting on you if that’s what you think.”
I laugh gruffly. “How old’s your kid?” I ask.
“Nineteen,” she says. “I had him when I was seventeen. Isn’t that just mental? But life happens…”
“Hmm.” I move my finger around the edge of my whiskey glass. “I’m sure you did a great job.”
I think that’s going to be the end of it for a few minutes. The American woman orders some drinks, and they disappear into their own conversation. However, it seems the British woman can’t leave it alone.
“Why are you here, Mr. Grumpy?” she says, drawing a warning look from her friend. Something tells me the British woman often behaves like this when drunk.
“Do you want the truth?” I snap, my voice way too fierce. I expect my tone to make her back down, but she just nods at me. Fuck it. “After years of being a miserable bastard, I’ve finally found the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.”
It’s actually easier talking to these people than it would be to anybody I know. I’m never going to see them again.
“What’s wrong with that?” the British woman says. “That’s great news, isn’t it? Oh, let me guess. She’s married?”
“No,” I grunt. At least, I hope not. I know far too little about my woman. I know I want her, need her. I know she belongs to me, but in terms of her life, dreams, and situation, I know nothing. What if she has a boyfriend?
“You confessed your love,” the British woman says, “and she didn’t feel the same?”
“No,” I say. “We haven’t even met.”
“You’re staring at that glass of whiskey like you’re trying to make it explode in your mind.”
I laugh without humor.
“How do you know she’s the one for you if you’ve never met?” she presses.
“I just know,” I snap. “The second I saw a photo of her, I knew she…” Belonged to me, I was going to say, but these women have a liberal look about them. They’d probably kick up a fuss if I phrased it like that. Not that it matters, but my instinct is to always avoid drama, especially in public. “She was perfect. I knew I’d do anything I could to make her happy.”
“Then you should tell her,” the British woman declares, “right now. Ring her up!”
“Easy,” her friend says, touching her arm. “We don’t know anything about this guy or his relationship.”
“You heard him. How much would you give for a man to sound that certain about you, hmm? It’s a rare and beautiful thing.”
The American turns to me and stares. It’s like she’s trying to work out exactly how messed up I am. “There’s something you’re not telling us. It can’t be some fairytale love-at-first-sight deal. If it were, you wouldn’t be sitting here looking like you’re getting ready to go on a killing spree.”
I don’t need to tell them anything. I’ve already said too much, but it’s just so difficult keeping it locked inside.
