We took our ice creams and headed back to the street, slowly meandering toward Craft.
“It’s cute,” I told him, bumping his bicep with my shoulder. “This whole retired aesthetic you have going on. Jazz, Steve, butter pecan. It’s kind of sexy, actually.”
He smiled down at his geriatric ice cream. “Steve is the coolest guy I’ve ever met. I want to be him when I grow up. You know? He hasn’t done anything extraordinary in his life. Like, he worked at a bank for over forty years, married his high school sweetheart, and raised a family. Now he spends his free time mentoring jerks like me and playing in a jazz band.” He was silent for a minute as he sorted out what he wanted to say next. “I used to feel like I needed to do something big. I needed to get my life right. And maybe I only had one chance to do it. So instead of making small steps toward something worthwhile, I just freaked out and ran in the other direction. But I think Steve figured it out. Our life isn’t supposed to be about getting it right. It should be the simple, humble pursuit of happiness.” He shot me a sidelong glance and clarified. “Not happiness in the way we see it on the surface. Not that perfect, comfortable bullshit. But the kind of happiness you feel after a really hard day’s work. You’re bone-tired but proud of what you’ve accomplished. Or you know that feeling after you fight for something you believe in, like really balls-to-the-wall go after something. And at the end of it, you’re terrified and tired and still kind of mad, but it feels so fucking good to have done something. To have moved the needle. Like that’s the happiness I want. A life I fucking fought to make beautiful. A small, good, hard-won life that’s mine.”
“I like that,” I told him. It was such a stupid thing to say. He’d opened a well of emotions in me. Emotions I didn’t know I had. But God, I resonated with every single thing. And he should know that, I decided. “My sister just graduated with her BS in Nursing. And this feeling of failure keeps creeping up on me. Especially when I couldn’t afford the apartment and didn’t know what to do. But it’s like, she knew exactly what she wanted to do since she was a little girl. And she just did it. She went out there and did it. And I am so in awe of her accomplishment. But I can’t help but compare myself to her. She has a real job. With real insurance. And a real 401k. She has this bright future that she is already accomplishing. And what do I do? I serve at a bar.”
“Hey now,” Charlie chided. “You manage a bar. You’re the general manager of a bar.”
I laughed at his insistence. “Okay, fine. I’m a general manager at a bar that had to pay me with free rent because I couldn’t afford it on my own. And don’t get me wrong, I love my job. God, I do. I love it. I love the nightlife, I love the atmosphere, I love Craft. But I keep asking myself what’s wrong with me? Like what’s wrong with my drive that this is all I want to do?”
He looked at me as we leisurely strolled along the sidewalk, occasionally dodging the random pedestrian or bar signage. “Ada, you can’t be serious. There is nothing wrong with your drive. You’re the most driven person I know.”
“Charlie, may I remind you, I work at a bar.”
“You work at my bar,” he said, nudging me with his elbow. “And honestly, I think it’s amazing. Also, I know the owners. They wouldn’t hire just anyone.”
I smiled and took a big bite of my cone. “That’s what I’m saying. I actually love what I do. But I can’t shake this pressure that there should be more to my life. Like I want to have kids at some point. I can’t really have kids and work every night slinging drinks.”
“Who says?” He was serious. “Who says you can’t do something you love and have a family? Like why not? So what if your family life looks different from everybody else’s? Genuinely, who cares? It’s your family. Raise it how you want to.”
His words settled anxious pieces of my heart. I hadn’t even known how freaked out I was until I’d verbalized my fears. Yet Charlie was right there with peace, waiting for me.
“You make a good point,” I told him.
“Yeah? Do I?”
“Yeah, you do.”
“We worry about a lot that hasn’t happened, you know? So much bullshit that probably won’t ever happen. If you’re happy with your life, Ada, why would you let anyone or anything steal that from you?”
“Ugh, when did you get so right about everything?”
He held out his spoon with a big bite of butter pecan on it. “I’m pretty sure it started somewhere around this. Let’s go. Give it a try.”
“No,” I said, laughing. “The flavors will clash.”
He brought it closer to my mouth. “Come on. I want to go two for two.”
When the ice cream actually bumped into my lips, I gave in and took the bite. Damn. It was so buttery. So pecan-y. So utterly comforting and nostalgic.
“I don’t know that you’re right,” I told him.
“Ada...”
“But you’re not wrong. At least.”
“Let’s write that down,” he teased. “Ada Kelly admitted that Charlie English is never wrong.”
Laughing, I elbowed him this time. “I didn’t say never wrong. I said you’re not wrong this one, very small, very insignificant time.”
“I heard never wrong,” he countered. “In fact, I’m very confident you said never wrong.” He stretched his neck and made a show of looking around. “Does everyone agree? Ada said Charlie is never wrong. Okay great.” He looked at me, his face as serious as could be. “They agree. You’re outnumbered.”
“You’re crazy.”
We finished our ice creams and tossed what trash we had into a nearby street bin. Then we were at the side entrance to the bar, and my hands and lips were sticky from the melted ice cream.
My keys were in my crossbody purse, but I wasn’t in a hurry to get them.
