“Then you’ve come to the right place. Some days just need a do-over.”
I nod along. “True story.”
She sends me a wink and moves on to the next customer while I return to sipping my mineral water. Just as I’m contemplating the jukebox, a voice I haven’t heard since the grand opening of the therapy center—and now twice in one week—sends a buzz of warmth down my spine.
“Ignacio.”
I turn as Bram climbs onto the stool beside me, his posh scent immediately familiar.
“Wow,” I say, going for the joke. “You’re acknowledging my presence in public.” I press the back of my hand to his forehead. “You feeling okay, Dr. Barlowe?”
We both react to the contact, and I check my hand as though I might find electrical burns.
“I can go if you would prefer,” he says, looking very much like he’d prefer to stay.
I shake my head. “I’m kidding. Sorry, just in the middle of a weird week.”
He eyes the bottle in front of me. “I thought you were sober?” he asks, careful in his phrasing.
I turn the bottle around, showing him the label.
“I am sober. Topo Chico has some of that effervescent thing I like about beer.”
He nods. “Smart. Though…is this the best environment for you?”
“Dr. Barlowe, are you trying to tell me what to do?”
He holds up his hands. “No. Absolutely not. That would be inappropriate.”
I snort, then cover it up by taking a drink.
“And before you ask, Sandy knows I’m sober and never offers me alcohol. It’s just nice to be in the community without having to say the words, ‘Hello, my name is Nacho, and I’m an alcoholic.’”
“Fair.” He nods. “I was going to order a beer, but I can…”
I cut him off. “Order your beer. Being around alcohol is not my trigger. Being around family, on the other hand…”
He chuckles, then orders a Guinness.
“Why do you like that stuff? It’s basically beer sludge. Like drinking a loaf of bread.”
“Ignacio, are you trying to tell me what I can and can’t drink?” he asks, lightly mocking me.
I roll my eyes. “No.”
“Mm. Thought so,” he says, his eyes lingering on my hands before he continues, “Sandy’s one of the few bartenders in this place who knows how to pull a proper pint.”
“So snobby,” I retort, knocking his shoulder.
He stiffens at the contact, and I quickly return to my own airspace. We’re not going to talk about the thing we’re not talking about, so I need to stop testing the waters.
As if in silent agreement—something we’re both good at—we go back to our drinks, nursing them, chatting with Sandy, and generally ignoring each other. After a while, though, he finally looks back over at me. I lift my chin, and he grins at the familiar gesture.
“Sorry to be nosy, but you said you had a weird week. Anything you need to talk about?”
I’m not exactly surprised by his offer—he never could leave well enough alone—but I am surprised by how relieved I am to have his attention again.
He always did give excellent advice.
