"No," he shakes his head. "I'm no coward," he says, "but who was I to stop the demise of our marriage if she wasn't even willing to respect our vows. I waited outside the bar. Finally, the group came out, all gathered around this one man, patting him on the back and shaking his hand. It was apparent that it was him. But what shocked me was his appearance. The comparison was brutal. About the same height and age as me, yet he had a large pot belly and a receding hairline with a bald spot on top. I'm 43, and I've always worked out and stayed fit. So, if a woman's going to choose, I thought it'd be me.But she chose him that night. I couldn't understand the appeal."
I glance down at his arms, visible beneath his rolled-up cuffs. Massive and muscular, they matched the build of his chest and shoulders. Tattoos spiral from his wrists up his arms, disappearing under the sleeves, then re-emerging across his chest and neck, exposed by the unbuttoned collar of his shirt.
The bartender's eyes darken, remembering. "They left the bar hand in hand and walked next door to the hotel, laughing. I just watched from my car and cried. Hard."
Slumping against the bar, he continues. "I went home, packed her bags, and sent them to her sister's house. Paid the driver extra to put it on her sister's porch. Changed the locks the next morning before she even left the hotel."
He laughs bitterly. "You know what the most tragic thing was? When she finally cornered me here at the bar, she wanted to know what was going on. She said we'd discussed this, that it was time to go back to normal, that nothing had changed. She insisted we sit down and talk it out if I needed to."
He peers at me, haunted.
"Everything had changed. I tried to talk before she destroyed us, and she shut me down. Now I was done. I had nothing left to say."
He exhales sharply and starts drying a glass. "I filed for divorce soon after. It was cut and dried, no adult kids, simple division of assets."
He sets the glass on the shelf and starts on another, giving me the side-eye. "And that's the thing about grass, kid, sometimes it looks greener. Maybe even smells sweeter. But it's not worth what you already have."
I grip my glass tight, feeling the edges dig into my hand.
"She comes in here from time to time, begging me to take her back, but there's no going back for me. And, there's no going back for Giselle. Not from the moment she gave what was mine to someone else."
He turns his back to me, humming to the Christmas music coming through the overhead speakers. I rub my hand through my hair and wish life had been simpler, hoping I'd not been greedy. I have to admit to myself that I forced this on her. I pull out my cellphone and begin typing a message to Melly.
What do I say? Hi, sorry it's been months.
No, this is something to do in person. Maybe I can talk to her after I get rid of Mandy for good. I can't do anything with Mandy hanging around. I back out the text and put my phone in my pocket.
"Gray?" A woman's voice comes from the door of the bar. She's late forties, femininity in every step despite her tear-stained eyes and the clothes that hang off her like she's lost weight.
She stops at the bar, her eyes locking on the bartender's back. "Grayson, won't you talk to me, please?"
Grayson shakes his head, towel in hand, voice gentle but firm. "Nothing left to talk about, Giselle."
She breaks down in tears, trying to go behind the bar. "Yes, there is, Grayson,' she sobs, voice breaking. "I love you. You still love me, I know you do."
"Giselle, sweetheart," he replies almost sadly, "there are some things that love can't overcome. If you really loved me, we'd still be married. The last man to touch you would've been me."
He gently tugs her toward the door, pulling her arms from around him. "Honey, you need to leave now. We have nothing to talk about. Leave before security sees you."
The entire time he's gently coaxing her toward the door, she's holding him and begging him. "If you'll just listen and talk to me, Gray, we can get past this. Please, love… don't shut me out."
A moment later, two security guards arrive, and Gray hands her over. They carefully guide her toward the exit, talking softly to her as she cries.
Grayson sits on the end barstool, wiping his eyes yet again. "Yeah… I still love her," he mutters, almost to himself. "It's going to take a while to get over this. But without trust… love doesn't mean anything!"
I grip the edge of the bar, shaking. This moment hits me hard. Reality is crashing in.
Was I Giselle? Did I think I could have it both ways? Have I lost the love of my life?
