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Jeanine glanced at the neon clock on the wall, clearly conflicted. Her mom was almost certainly asleep on her couch by now, and she had to get back in case Micah needed her.
“Go,” I urged her. Still looking unsure, she pulled me in for a hug.
“Text me the second you walk through the door,” she said. Then she kissed my cheek and left.
I dropped back down onto the bar stool and took out my phone, staring down at the message from Thacker. At times like this, I could tell that he was a generation older than me. We millennials have learned never to use this phrase in a vague text unless you want to send the recipient into a panic.
I swiped the screen and it scanned my face and unlocked. I still didn’t know what to say, or if I should say anything. I was still trying to decide when a couple of guys I recognized but couldn’t quite place walked up.
“Hey, Hope,” said the shorter, dark-haired one. I smiled, trying to be polite while I searched my brain for his name. But my drunk haze was thicker than ever.
At least I wasn’t thinking about Thacker.
I let my phone slide out of my hand, back into my purse, and I took the guys up on their offer. But the way the dark-haired one was looking at me made me uneasy. I returned his frank stare, and when his lips twitched upward, I remembered exactly where I knew these guys from.
32.
Thacker
I glared down at the soup I was heating in a pot on my stove. Borderline questionable leftovers from the restaurant.
I could afford to let it go to waste, but I couldn’t stand to. I could afford to bail the restaurant out week after week, month after month, but this was supposed to be a business. Not a money pit.
The image of Hope danced in front of me no matter how I tried to push her away. The indignant color rising in her cheeks. The way her gray eyes flared when I told her she was serving oversized portions.
It was good that she hated me. I wanted her to hate me. I needed that wall between us so I didn’t do something stupid. She was in love with someone else. Committed, full stop. But sometimes it was hard for me to tell the difference between fantasy and reality when I wanted something as much as I wanted her.
I didn’t bother emptying the pot into a bowl, I just set it aside to let it cool for a minute and then picked it up by the handle and carried it into the living room, slurping from the spoon I’d used to stir.
Like every other day of my life, I thought about having a drink. I thought how nice it would be, a whiskey on the rocks with this incredible, rich broth imbued with Hope’s love for cooking. I even enjoyed the slightly burnt taste of the onions, because it reminded me of the fight we had over this batch of soup. When I saw all that passion she had for food, I couldn’t help but wish that just a little bit of it was for me.
Wishful thinking. I rolled my eyes and grabbed the remote, turning on the television for a distraction. From Hope, and the thought of whiskey.
I’d been sober for three years, going on four. But the ache remained. And I was sure that as far as Hope was concerned, I wanted her so badly because I was transferring that ache onto her. I had to be craving something, something self-destructive. If it wasn’t going to break me, I wasn’t interested.
I stared through the baseball game on the screen, sliding unstoppably down into a fantasy of her.
In the fantasy, I’m always three drinks in. That’s the perfect buzz, the one you’ll chase for the rest of the night, the rest of your life if you’re unlucky like me. At that moment, everything is just right. These days, she was there, too. She was there every time I closed my eyes. And I’d told myself all the standard lines.
It’s just because you see her every day.
You have an addictive personality.
You’re in love with the idea of being in love.
You don’t deserve her…
The last one stung the most, but it was the truest. I’d only ever been a headache and a misery for the women foolish and compassionate enough to let me in. During my time playing baseball in the major leagues, I burned through women like they were disposable cameras. Capture a few blurry memories, then move on to the next shiny thing. If it’s worth anything, I was doing my level best to throw myself away, too.
Instead, I ripped my rotator cuff and crash-landed into early retirement. Right now, I still had more than enough money to walk away and let my investment dividends bankroll my life of simple luxuries. I could live where I wanted, drive a nice car, and take up painting or gardening, something to keep me from going completely insane.
I’d thought about selling the restaurant, but there was one big problem with that plan. If I sold the restaurant, I wouldn’t get to see her every day. In fact, I might never see her again.
Losing Hope and sitting around all day with nothing to do? I knew exactly what I’d find to occupy my time.
Jim and Jack. Jose. Mix them all together and toss them down the hatch until reality starts to fade away.
The chirp of my phone pulled me out of my trance. I frowned at it where it sat, ringing, on the coffee table. Then my eyes focused, and I read the name on the screen.
