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“Woof, woof,” he sing-songs, calling the bartender from the other side of the circular bar with a wave of his hand.
How impertinent and arrogant can this guy be? To think he can strike up a conversation with a total stranger and expect them to grace him with their attention like they were made for that specific purpose…
What a twat.
“Also, don’t call me sweetheart,” I add, just as an announcement for bad weather causing delays comes over the tannoy, reminding me that I have another hour to wait before my gate comes up on the flight information display.
I’ve already been sitting here for three hours since they announced the second delay, almost six hours after the first announcement. Something tells me I’m not going to be able to nurse the same glass of wine for much longer. Plus, if there are any more delays, I’m going to miss my connecting flight in Budapest. That means I lose a whole day in Cappadocia, the place my father and I have always dreamt of seeing.
I spent the best part of a grand booking the hot air balloon ride we said we’d go on for his seventieth birthday in a few years. It wouldn’t have cost half as much for a shared ride, but I don’t think other passengers would appreciate me dusting some of my father’s ashes around them. Besides, that’s going to be my true goodbye, and I don’t want to share the moment with anyone else. Even if the anticipation of it and the pain has become a perma-weight on my mind and heart.
“Why not?” the twat asks at the same time as the bartender pauses in front of us, and in the middle, acting as if we’re together.
“Because I don’t want you to.” Tilting his head to the side, he studies me closely, and before he asks another question, I tell him, “You don’t know me from Adam.”
“Ready to order?” The bartender interrupts our staring contest.
“Sorry, mate.” Twat’s apology to the bartender catches me off-guard.
Cocky men like him never apologise, especially not to serving staff. I worked enough bars during my university and teacher training days to know this from personal experience. Maybe ‘twat’ is a bit of a heavy word for him…
“I’ll have a Negroni. Is it possible to change out the gin for your best bourbon?”
“Sure,” the bartender replies, searching the shelves behind him before he turns his attention to me.
Before I can tell him I’ve had enough, Mr Cocky hands him my wine glass, saying, “Whatever this was, Nova didn’t approve.”
Nova? Who the frick is Nova? I level him with a confused frown.
He shrugs, whispering, “Is it better than sweetheart?”
Like an idiot, I huff and roll my eyes at him while the bartender tells him, “It’s your typical, dry cab-sauv—a little bit grainy. We do have a sweeter zinfandel with a nice strawberry note to it and a hint of raspberry tartness.”
“She’ll have one of those,” Twaticus Maximus says. “A large one.”
No, thank you. “I—”
“That’s all for now. Thanks, bud.”
I’m gobsmacked as the bartender walks off to get our drinks. It takes a moment for what just happened to sink in. This man, a complete stranger, has just trampled his way into my afternoon. Not only has he assumed I’m interested in making small talk with him, which I’m not, but he’s assumed that it’s all right for him to order a drink for me, which I don’t want.
“We could get to know each other, Nova.” He spins his barstool to face me, tempting me to spin my back towards him.
“Stop calling me Nova, Maximus.”
“A rose by any other name…” He shrugs, a smile cutting so deep into his face that two perfect dimples sink below his cheeks.
“The fact you chose to use a line from Romeo and Juliet should clue you in to where this is going.”
“I don’t see a problem with that,” he tells me, adding a waggle of his eyebrows. My hands ball into fists on the bar as he leans closer and adds, “They had a good time, darling.”
“And then they died.” The words tug a broken lump of my heart into my throat before they tumble from my mouth.
I’m so frazzled, every little thing is setting me off. Every reminder of Dad is hitting harder the later it becomes and the deeper the panic sets in that I might not get to accomplish the last thing on our bucket list before his ashes are placed in the columbarium beside his sister’s.
“And got to spend the rest of eternity together.”
“They killed themselves.” I groan, twisting towards him so that our faces are inches apart. “There’s no way you can spin that into a happy ending.”
