Casey
In the middle of my shift at Harts, I leaned back against the bar. We’d just had an after-work rush of drinkers, and while I was glad to fill my tip jar, I didn’t mind having a second to breathe, too.
The bar was dark and not too loud. A musician played maybe once a month, but otherwise, it was the kind of place you’d bring a date or maybe meet a few friends to relax. I poured myself some soda water and cued up a new chill playlist on my phone.
A woman sat down directly across from me. Without fully looking up, I could tell she was gorgeous. She was full and curvy and with the kind of pouty lips that I always went for.
I tilted my eyes up. “What can I get for you?”
She held my gaze and leaned forward. “Vodka cranberry,” she answered with a purr.
It was amazing how some people could make any words sound like a flirtation. It was a skill I always hoped to perfect for myself.
“Vodka cranberry it is,” I said with a nod and turned to fix her drink without making eye contact.
When I’d started at Harts, I didn’t exactly shy away from hooking up with patrons. I always knew exactly how much they’d had to drink, so it was easy to avoid anyone tipsy, and there were plenty of sober people looking for some fun on their night out.
Why in the hell shouldn’t I have a good time, I figured?
I pushed my hair back and slid the woman the drink. “Start a tab?” I asked with a totally even face.
“Sure,” she answered, then handed off her card, clearly disappointed I wasn’t taking the bait.
It wasn’t anything against her, though. I was just still riding the high of hooking up with Blake. It was a rare pleasure to roll around with your straight friend, and I tried to appreciate it when the time came around.
Appreciating my life was pretty much my primary motivation. My mom had raised me, and for the first seventeen years of my life, fun was pretty hard to come by. She treated me like a burden, and no matter how hard I tried, it seemed like everything I did embarrassed her. She wanted a kid like Blake, a popular star athlete, or like Peyton, well-behaved and head of his class. But instead, she got me, and she never attempted to hide her disappointment.
When I turned seventeen, she met a respected, wealthy man in town and promptly kicked me out. I took it as a wakeup call. After years of being miserable and feeling unworthy in her house, I swore that I was going to find a way to be happy on my own terms. Fuck all the rest of it, I figured. As long as I was doing what I wanted to do and taking care of myself, I didn’t need to rely on anyone else.
I spun the whiskey bottle in my hand and poured a shot for a regular. The truth was, I did have everything I needed, but part of the reason for that was because I had Blake. We took good care of each other, and in so many ways, I couldn’t imagine myself without him. But despite how good Blake was for me, I was starting to accept that our time together needed to come to an end.
Maybe if we weren’t so far up each other’s asses—usually not literally, but still—maybe then, he would be out here looking for his own special someone.
I cast my eyes out over the bar and spotted the women who had flirted with me earlier. I wasn’t in the mood for a one-night stand, but I considered whether she might be Blake’s type.
If I found him the woman who became his wife, and they had a happy family together like the guy always wanted, then I’d know I’d done right by him. And after so many years, and a hell of a lot of time where Blake was the one taking care of me, I fully intended to do right by my guy.
Just so long as his grumpy ass was smiling every now and then. That was all I needed to know.
The next bartender, Marcus, showed up, and I cashed out and slipped away, then pulled up to the house before eleven.
When I walked into the kitchen, Blake was standing there in his sweatpants and with his hairy chest exposed, staring into the fridge. “Hey,” he said, not looking up.
“You looking for something?”
“I’m trying to make a sandwich.”
I patted his shoulder, moving him away from the fridge. “I got this.”
Russell walked into the room, also in his sweatpants, although he had an old college sweatshirt on, too. “Oh, sorry,” he said, hesitating.
“For what?” I asked. “Come in. It’s your kitchen, too.”
Russell smiled and glanced between me and Blake, then nodded. “I was just coming for a snack.”
“Casey’s got it,” Blake said as he sat at the counter. “He likes to cook.”
“It’s true,” I said as I grabbed stuff from the fridge. “Would you eat a grilled cheese, maybe with some tomatoes? Blake likes it with pickles, too.”
