Brayden
Several Hours Earlier…
Savannah only glancesback once as she slides out of the booth and cuts a path through the crowd as she leaves the bar: long enough to catch me staring at the proud set of her shoulders, the curling ends of her hair.
Go after her, everything in me screams. I want to pull her back to me. To hear the smoky sound of her laughter. To kiss her in the middle of the dance floor and leave no doubt who she belongs with. I want?—
A drink.
I call over the waitress. She smiles at me, candy-sweet enough to make my teeth ache. At me or at the matte black of my credit card. It doesn’t matter which. The whiskey she brings will taste the same. “Your friend leave already?” she asks.
“Mywife, you mean.” But I put in my order.
The waitress moves to collect the glass on the table, still bearing the smudge of Savannah’s lipstick, the overlap of whereI put my mouth against the rim. “Leave that,” I say, harsher than I should, but she sets the glass back where it was. Soon enough, she returns with a drink, and I down it in one go, then order another.
Sometime later—afew minutes? an hour?—I find myself at the bar, phone in hand. People swirl around me. A few bros who clap me on the shoulder with agood gameeven if it wasn’t really. Women press themselves against my arms, hope brightening their eyes. Lights pulse, music drums. Everything is too loud. Too much.
I take out my phone, fumble open our texts thread. Mostly it’s boring shit—logistics. Marriage is a lot of logistics, it turns out. A few messages with various decorations Sav’s thinking about getting. I should have pictures of her, right? A husband thing to have. But I don’t. No fixing that now, especially not with how she left.
Brayden:next time I’ll warn you before we go out
Brayden:next time we’ll dance
Brayden:next time I won’t pull away
None of which I can say. She’s using me for my money, but at least she’s honest about it. Sav has dreams and she agreed to help me with my image to get to what she wants—which isn’t me. Even drunk, I can remember that. She’s not really my wife, no matter how much?—
No matter what.
So I erase those messages, and I type that I’m going to be out late. Or I try to. My fingers stumble over the keys. I’ll have onemore drink and go home. One more—there’s always one more. One more and I’ll finally have had enough.
I wave to the bartender, the one who always seems to be working when I’m in here. He’s got dark eyes, dark hair, a scowl half-hidden beneath his beard. He reminds me of?—
I motion for another drink. The action almost tips me off the barstool.
The bartender snags a glass, pulls something from the tap, shoves in a wedge of lime. Sloshes it in front of me. “On the house.”
I take a sip. Bubbles without that familiar alcohol burn. “This is fucking club soda.”
He snorts. “No, it’s tonic water.”
“I wanted a drink.”
“I know.”
He stares at me with enough force I almost look away. I won’t be embarrassed for drinking at a bar. I won’t even be embarrassed for being drunk at a bar. But I gulp down the stupid fucking water—it fizzes across my tongue, finishes bitter—then tap the glass back down.
The bartender refills the glass and thrusts it forward. “You’re here a lot. Do you want to be?”
“Where am I supposed to—” I start, then cut myself off. I told myself before we came here that I didn’t want to drink. That I’d be fine not drinking. The whiskey sloshes in my stomach. The bartender’s still looking at me.
I drink the stupid water. My head clears momentarily. Savannah is probably asleep on the other side of the wall between our bedrooms—with a door that locks on her side of it. Some nights, when the AC isn’t blowing, I can hear her breathing, her soft murmurs to herself in her sleep. Suddenly, I want to be anywhere but this barstool.
I pull out my wallet. Drop two twenties on the damp surface of the bar. Wave to the bartender. “Thanks for the drinks.”
“You driving?” he asks.
I hold up my phone. “Uber.”
