I let it go to voicemail.Humbug watches that too, the way a cat watches a window.I busy my hands with garnishes, twist an orange peel until the oils mist the air.
“Boyfriend,” he says.Not a question.
“Mm,” I say.He doesn’t get the truth.No one does.Saying it out loud would make it too damn real.The waiting, the maybe, the someday-that-never-comes.
A group of carolers spill in, red-cheeked and loud.Their breath fogs into the warm bar and tire tracks of snow slush onto the floor.They line the back wall and launch into “O Holy Night.”The high note reaches up into the rafters and comes down with a shiver.The whole place softens.Even the regulars lower their voices.
My heart swells.But Humbug stares into his glass and doesn’t blink until it’s over.
“You should go easy on yourself,” I tell him, and I don’t know why.“It’s just a day.”
“Days turn into years,” he says.He drains the whiskey like he’s putting out a fire inside him.“And then you wake up, and you hate the music.”
“Maybe the music’s not the problem,” I say before I can stop myself.
He turns his head just enough that I see the scar tugging by his jaw.“Maybe you don’t know what the problem is,” he says, calm but lethal.
“Maybe not,” I say, and smile because smiling is my armor.“But I know how to pour another.”
He huffs something that’s not quite a laugh and taps the bar twice with two fingers.I notice the grime around his fingernails.Nothing like Blake’s polish.
I pour again.
It should be easy.He’s just a customer, a shadow under the twinkling lights I love.I’ve dealt with worse, namely, grabby hands, slurred compliments, boys with expensive watches and cheap souls.Humbug isn’t any of those.He’s quiet.He tips cash.
Yeah, he looks at my ass when I lean into the cooler.And my chest tightens like a fiddle string before it snaps every time, I feel him watching me.
“Bathroom?”he asks.
“Back hall, second door,” I say.“First one sticks.”
He doesn’t say thanks.He doesn’t need to.He moves like a man who’s already fought his wars, solid and sure, like the room will move around him if it’s smart.
I lean on the bar for half a second and feel the night settle.The carolers leave with a flush of cold air and laughter.The TV changes to some football game.Sugar Plum slides past me, hip to hip, and waggles her on-trend, full eyebrows.
“Executioners in the house,” she murmurs, speaking of the biker.“You okay?”
“Peachy,” I say.I lick peppermint dust from my thumb.“That one’s Humbug.”
“Don’t name him to his face.He hates it.”
“He hates everything,” I counter.
Sugar Plum smirks.“Not the whiskey.”She scans my face.“You good, Caroler?”We have our nicknames here.Sugar’s really her last name.
“Define good.”
“Not about to climb the counter and make a mistake.”
“Please,” I scoff, even as heat climbs my neck.
“He’s thirty-five.Way too old for you.”
“I’m a lady,” I say, as I mull that information over.Age is just a number after all.“If I jump the counter, do you think he’ll catch me?”
“He’s married.”
“Ew.”Now that bursts my sex bubble.
