Gabriel takes his arm off me and shrugs his shoulders twice, like he’s prepping for a big moment. “There’s a fish to catch.” He rips his gaze away and looks at me, wiggling his eyebrows. “Excuse me.”
I watch him walk to the woman. He says something to her, she looks up and smiles, and he sits down next to her. I should tell her that he just referred to her as a fish, but I know that I won’t. Feeling a twinge of guilt, I down the watery remains of my drink and set it on the round table beside me.
Looking around at the crowded bar, I stifle a sigh and think about when I can get the hell out of here without coming off as rude. It was nice of my colleagues to put together a going away happy hour, but I’m ready to head home.
This place is packed with men and women dressed in professional attire. No blue-collar beer drinkers in sight. Is that what I’m going to see in Oregon? I’m picturing lumberjacks with meaty arms lifting steins of frothy beer, but that’s probably due to my exposure to television and obvious lack of knowledge thanks to growing up in the Arizona desert.
Maybe I should do some shopping before I leave, though. Just in case. I could pick up some flannels?
I sigh quietly.
I’m not sure why I’m going anymore.
That’s not true. I knowwhyI’m going. I just don’t know why I chose Lonesome, Oregon as my destination. I mean, yeah, the name drew me in. I was feeling shitty on a Saturday night, and instead of answering the phone when Lennon called, I watched it ring. Then, when the phone said I had a missed call, I felt like sayingno kidding. I just watched me miss it.
I reached the bottom of a bottle of red wine at just about the same time I found Lonesome, Oregon. According to the website, it’s a retreat for those in search of solitude. Twelve free-standing cabins, each featuring a set of rocking chairs on the front porch and personal barbecue, promise a peaceful and relaxing departure from the overload of everyday life. The main house, where the owner lives, serves breakfast each morning. After typingescapeinto the internet search bar, Sweet Escape Bed and Breakfast popped up. I didn’t waste even two seconds thinking about it. I selected my stay date, whipped my credit card from my pocket, and typed in the numbers.
Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.
That spur of the moment decision brought me here, to this crowded bar drinking goodbye drinks with my soon-to-be former colleagues.
I flick my wrist, attempting a surreptitious glance at my watch. We’ve already been here an hour. I have another half hour left in me, then I’ll split. Ninety minutes is enough time to devote to people who were, at best, surface level friends.
Honestly, calling them friends is an overstatement. I probably know more about them than they do about me. A majority of the people here have families. I know their wives and husbands’ name, and kids too, thanks to the note app in my phone. Referring to that app before walking into a meeting has awarded me several surprised and appreciativehe remembered my kid’s namelooks.
Conversely, these people know little about me. They know nothing of how I grew up, only that I came to Chicago from Arizona. Their questions about Arizona ranged from intelligent to idiotic.What crops are grown in the desert? Have you ever been stung by a scorpion? Are there rattlesnakes, just, like walking around all over the place?The last one was from an intern. He didn’t last long, and I don’t know how he even made it into the firm at all. I told him there are indeed rattlesnakeswalkingaround everywhere, then congratulated myself on ensuring an embarrassment to humankind like him would never go to Arizona.You’re welcome, great people of state forty-eight.
“Brady?”
I’m stirred from my memories by Lindsey Tovani, a new-ish lawyer. She’s been at the firm fewer than six months. I haven’t worked with her much, but my impression of her is that she’s very bright.
“Lindsey, hi.”
“Looks like you’re low.” She inclines her head toward my drink. Her dark hair falls over her shoulder, and she tucks it back behind her ear.
Lindsey is attractive. Her hair is a warm brown, kind of like chocolate, and her eyes are dark too.
Similar to someone else I know.The same person who, for better or worse, plays a role in my escape to Lonesome, Oregon.
Lifting my drink, I shake it and watch the ice cubes tumble around. “I’ll use the cubes for hydration.”
She laughs, lifting her nearly-empty white wine glass to her lips and finishing it. “I’ll get us another round.”
My ingrained manners take over, but Lindsey is quick. She’s already spun around toward the bar, so I move quickly, grabbing her hand. Or, I thought I was grabbing her hand. In my haste, I grabbed her hip.
Lindsey spins back around, her face upset. When she sees it’s me, she relaxes.
She steps closer, leaning into my ear and shouting to be heard. “I was ready to throat punch a handsy asshole. Thank goodness it was only you.” She pulls back, a little smirk on her lips, and turns back to the bar.
Either I’m hearing things thanks to the din of this place, or Lindsay had a flirtatious lilt to her voice. And she doesn’t care that I’ve grabbed her hip. Apparently I don’t qualify as a handsy asshole.
Lindsey has already ordered new drinks for us, but I’m taller, so when the bartender holds out a hand for payment, I get it in his hands before Lindsey can finish sliding hers across the wooden bar top.
“Hey,” she yells, frowning at me.
I hold up my hands defensively. “I’m all for female equality, but there are some things I can’t let go. And a lady buying me a drink is one of them.”
She huffs, but I can tell it’s playful.
