For a wild moment, I think it might be her, but it's just Daniella.
Your 7 AM tomorrow is moved to 8.Also, stop drinking alone.It's depressing and you're bad at it.
"How does she know?"I mutter.
The bartender, who's been pretending not to eavesdrop, smirks."She called earlier.Said if you showed up to cut you off after three."
"I've had two."
"And you've been staring at that same photo for ten minutes."
I look down.
I've unconsciously pulled up the inn's website, where a photo of Sage and Buttercup graces the homepage.She's laughing, hair wild, wearing overalls that have seen better days.
She looks happy and real and nothing like someone who would intentionally hurt anyone.
"She's pretty," the bartender offers.
“’Pretty’ doesn’t even cover half of what she is,” I admit to my whiskey.
"So call her."
"She lied to me."
"And you're sitting in a bar on a Wednesday, miserable about it."He wipes down the already clean counter."Seems like you're both suffering."
"When did bartenders become therapists?"
"Comes with the territory.That'll be eighty-seven dollars."
"For two drinks?"
"Premium whiskey for premium sulking."
I pay and head for the exit, Seattle's November rain greeting me like an old enemy.
The driver I’ve ordered shows a five-minute wait, so I stand under the awning and definitely don't think about calling Sage.
Except I am thinking about it.
Thinking about her voice, her laugh, the way she says my name when she's exasperated.
Thinking about how empty my apartment feels, how colorless my days have become, how even professional success tastes like ash without someone to share it with.
"This is stupid," I tell the rain.
The rain doesn't argue.
Eleven.
Tomorrow will be twelve days.
Then soon it’ll be Thanksgiving, which I'll spend alone because I’m an only child, my parents are in Aspen, and the thought of facing my grandmother's matchmaking attempts feels exhausting.
Then December.Then a new year, then?—
"Sir?"The driver pulls up, brows knit together under his cap."You getting in?"
