“Yeah. It’s unforgivable.”
“Can you make some sort of grand gesture to make things right? Maybe show up with flowers?”
“I had a chance to make things right, and I blew it. I’m pretty sure the last thing he wants is me showing up with flowers.”
“Bet you’re wrong about that.”
“I don’t think so.”
I told Pete about Ben and Charlie and Leo, and all the alcohol in between.
“You know—I’ve been sober three years this March. The sauce can really mess things up. I don’t know if that’s the path you need to be on, but I’ve yet to meet someone who can say alcohol makes their relationships stronger.”
“A sober bartender?”
“There’s more of us than you think.” He pulled up the sleeve of his black V-neck T-shirt. “Serenity prayer. I got it after my wife left me.”
I turned to look at his face more closely. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-five. Why?”
“You just look young to have been married.”
He chuckled. “Not by Louisiana standards. Or Virginia, I’m guessing.”
“Touché.”
He nodded to the empty cocktail glass. “I feel like I was doing a pretty good job getting you back on track, but ... do you want one more?”
I smiled sadly. “Actually, I think I’ll stop while I’m ahead. And I don’t think that’s the way the night would have ended if it wasn’t for you.” I slid my credit card across the bar. “Thank you. Really.”
“Was it the tattoo?”
I laughed. “Maybe? My arms aren’t as muscular. I’d look ridiculous.”
He grinned. “Whatever it takes.”
I sighed. “I was hoping this dull pain in my chest would’ve gone away by now.”
“Sometimes alcohol helps. When it doesn’t—that’s worth paying attention to.” He nodded encouragingly. “If you two figure things out, bring him by sometime. I’d love to meet him.”
Chapter Forty-Two
I went home and stayed in bed for two days, watching old episodes ofThe West Wingon my laptop. I felt empty.
I spent February as close to a hermit as someone living in New York could be. Emilie had texted that she was staying in London, “maybe for just a month, maybe forever,” but she finally promised to FaceTime me when she was ready to talk. Connor and Gillian were spending weekends at a rental upstate. Caroline was the only person I saw consistently. She knocked on my door every Saturday morning and faithfully dragged me out for a frigid walk through the farmers market.
It was late February when I reached the episode where Josh throws snowballs at Donna’s window. When she finally comes down, he gives her his jacket and tells her with the sincerest look on his face, “You look amazing.”
It was snowing. I’d left the window open, and the prewar radiator was working overtime. My unmade bed was the only reasonably warm spot. There were unwashed mugs with old tea bags everywhere and used Kleenexes next to dying plants. I was unapologetically leaning into the cliché fog of heartbreak. I hadn’t allowed myself to drink since the night I met Pete, the sober bartender.
I paused the episode and stared at Bradley Whitford’s earnest face. Without thinking, I pulled my phone out from under the pillows.
I wish I’d had the guts to send this so much sooner, but I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me. I still don’t know if you do. But I need you to know that I am sorry. For everything. I wonder constantly how your mom is doing, and if you’re okay.
I sent it and waited for my heart rate to slow back to normal. I knew there was a chance he would never respond, and the idea of “us” would keep fading. There would be other people in our lives. But I needed him to know, even if it was just this once.
I was falling in love with you too.
