Well, Jane too. She takes up the rest of it. My teeth grind against each other.
It shouldn’t bother me. I love Jane, and I’m happy he’s happy. But it’s just a reminder that once again, I’m not anyone’s priority. My friends all have their own partners, creating their own lives, families back home in Pittsburgh, and it’s just…me.
Walker would tell me I have no one to blame but myself. That I pushed him and Hayden away.
They can fuck off.
Movement behind the bar pulls me out of my darkening thoughts, and I glance up. The bartender reaches above her head and her shirt rides up a bit with the movement, exposing a slip of her pale stomach and back.
Maybe if I was in the mood I’d give her a shot.
She slides a board over as the wheels creak loudly against their tracks. The coffee menu gives way to the bar menu, revealing a few drink specials and a couple of food options.
All fried and probably not public health inspected.
The little hand on the clock ticks down the final moments until it’s 5:00 pm. The girl appears to be watching it out of the corner of her eye as her hand hovers over the short glasses, waiting until truly the last moment to grab one for my drink. Even with her back turned to me, I can feel the smirk on her face.
Should’ve gone home.
But that’s just as unappealing. It doesn’t feel like home. Idon’t know if it ever has, even though I’ve called that house in the hills of LA home for the last ten years.
Maybe home is just an elusive feeling only a lucky few get to experience, and I’m just not one of them.
The clock strikes and she pours a skimpy serving of whiskey. Her hair fans out as she spins around and slaps the short glass against the counter, not even bothering with a napkin that might’ve helped catch some of the liquor that spills over with the force of it. She gives me a saccharine smile. “Thank you for your patience.”
The sarcastic tone in which she says it has a familiar heat rising in my chest. The taste of a potential challenge, a little more sparring, has sick excitement rising alongside it. But before I can quip something back, she takes off with a swoosh of her ponytail and without a second glance.
There’s something pulling in my gut as I take a drink. Like there’s something I’m missing. Something just out of reach. Like trying to remember details about a dream when you finally wake up.
The lights dim a bit, finally, and it does give the space a more late-night feel. A door behind the bar swings open, but it’s a different bartender that emerges. This guy’s older, I’d say maybe early fifties, and by the way he shoots a disgruntled look in my direction, I’d guess this is the owner whose business I insulted to his employee. I glare back at him, and he’s the one to break eye contact.
I finish my drink in a few sips and debate ordering another. It’s not that I exactly enjoy sitting here, but I also don’t particularly like the idea of returning home to my empty house. It’s still early and the nights are long.
Making my decision, I push my glass forward in silent order to the man and glance over to the small stage at the back of the bar. The girl is settling in on the creaky stool upthere, apron gone and hair pulled free from her ponytail. She adjusts the mic stand with one hand while steadying her acoustic guitar with the other. I used to have one a similar color to it. Now I have a whole collection of various guitars that sit untouched. None of them see the light of day anymore.
I used to love live music. When we played at festivals, Walker and I would often try to sneak into the crowd to catch other artists’ sets. There’s something about the electricity and energy of being amongst people in the thick of it that you just can’t get when you watch from backstage. As our fame grew, it got harder and harder to do that though, and then when our relationship crumbled…
Maybe I don’t want another drink, or maybe I actually want a few more.
I pull my eyes away and stare at my fists resting against the bartop. A restless energy buzzes beneath my skin, but I have no outlet to expel it. Maybe I should go back to the gym. Work myself into exhaustion.
A throat clears, the sound magnified by the microphone, but the bartender turned late-night entertainer doesn’t say anything as she strums a few times in warm up.
The man sitting at the other end of the bar spins on his stool to face the stage, giving her his full attention.
I pick at a scab on one of my knuckles as she begins to play. My ears reluctantly perk up at the familiar chords ringing out on acoustic guitar, but it isn’t until she sings the first verse that recognition fully washes over me.
I whip my head around, almost throwing my entire body off-balance on the stool, and I slam a hand against the counter to catch myself.
The song.
It’s one I played over and over until my fingers were raw growing up. One of my favorites.One that I taught her…
Impossible.
It’s a coincidence. Lots of people know that song. It shouldn’t hit me like it does, but there’s something I can’t kick. Maybe it’s her voice, the acoustic guitar, the red of her hair under the small lone stage light.
I don’t know when I stood up or how I got closer to the stage. Some invisible force pulls me forward, past the other patrons half paying attention to the girl playing, half involved in their various conversations or screens.
