Chapter 2 Rachel
Currently playing: Alone Again (Naturally) by Gilbert O’Sullivan
***
You know the best thing about being an adult? You can go into a random bar you’ve never been to, order anything you want, and sulk as long as you like. Or until the bar closes, actually. But other than that, you have total free will.
I chose the perfect day to use said free will, considering it was the worst one I’d had in a while. Instead of drowning in my tears or eating ten Little Debbie cakes and screaming the lyrics of Genesis’s “That’s All” at the top of my lungs, I figured it was time to put on my big girl pants and sulk the way most adults do. With alcohol. I googled the best bar in Philly, took a quick trip down the road, plopped myself and my sequined mini skirt onto a barstool, and ordered what I thought would make me feel the most mature.
It was an incredibly stupid choice, considering I had never touched whiskey a day in my life. Growing up, all my favorite songs talked about women who could shoot it straight, and I always thought oh yeah, I’m gonna be that girl one day.
Holding my nose, because the smell alone was bound to cause a hangover, I forced myself to take one more sip of what tasted like great-grandpa’s medicine cabinet mixed with a touch of hand sanitizer and a splash of bleach.
The liquid burned the back of my throat like drinking straight lava out of a fancy glass. The downright alien cough that left my mouth was proof enough that I wasn’t meant for drinks that didn’t have fun names like sunrise shore, or peachy-Malibu wave.
I cleared my burned throat, mumbling to myself as I tapped my finger on the rim of the glass. “Screw Carrie Underwood for making me think I had to shoot whiskey to be cool.”
My apartment was filled with thrifted furniture, I wore heels that were taller than most women dared to touch, and my collection of records was like a shrine to the greatest artists of all time. I didn’t need to order some dignified, manly drink to be cool. But it sure would have felt nice if I could, for one night, act like one of those girls who drank beer and knew how the heck a welder worked and what its purpose was. The quintessential cool-but-doesn’t-know-it girl. That was everyone’s favorite in the movies. Very early 2000s Megan Fox.
“Do you, uh, want mine?” A deep rumble one chair over from me sent vibrations up my spine and made the hair at my neck stand up. His voice sounded like rich dark chocolate. He sounded like the kind of guy who did order whiskey straight.
My neck craned to take the stranger in, and part of me was surprised I hadn’t checked the guy out sooner. His tattoos caught my eye first. It was probably rude, since he was looking at my face, but I noticed both arms were covered in tiny art designs. Flowers, an old airplane that looked straight out of those movies our high school teachers forced us to watch, a couple of tribal ones. But my gaze mostly stuck to the one that looked like two little boys had scribbled it right there with a Sharpie. Miles and Dallas. Adorable. He was a dad. That was charming. Automatically, the next place I looked was his left hand, which was completely ring free and looked like an excellent place for me to rest my own hand.
He cleared his throat, and I realized it had been a solid minute since he’d spoken. I’d been too stuck on these doodle pads he called arms to notice. I looked up at his face and was surprised when I felt a lick of heat up my spine.
He wasn’t really my type. I typically liked pretty boys, more handsome than able to physically lift me kind of thing. The kind of guy who had a golf membership and never used it, or who could go fishing but would never bait his hook. I liked control, and going out with a guy who was on the less-masculine side typically meant I had the upper hand.
This was not that guy. This man certainly baited his own hook. I doubt he had ever even been near a golf course. Rugged features, strong nose, cut jawline. His hair was a bit of a dark mess and scattered all over. Yet it worked perfectly for him. A tiny scar sat across his right brow, a stroke of white against his tan skin. There was a smudge of dirt along his chin, and I felt the urge to lick my thumb and clean it off. I would bet my money this guy owned a tool set. Or that he knew what an oil change consisted of at the very least.
Everything about him screamed man. He even had cargo pants on, something that had never done it for me. Who needed that many pockets? Then again, the guy was a dad, and I would think being a parent required snack pockets.
I finally landed on his eyes, dark green pools staring back at me. The one spot on him that looked soft, that looked longingly back at me. A boost of pride hit my chest at that.
“How do I know you’re not going to poison me?”
He looked from his drink to mine. It was almost comical how his had a tiny umbrella in it. What business did Arnold Schwarzenegger here have drinking something frozen and pink with an umbrella in it? But then again, what business did I have drinking whiskey straight?
“I wouldn’t poison my own drink.” He lifted the glass to his full lips and took a sip as if to prove his point.
I shrugged. Touché. My mouth watered at the sight of the frozen cocktail. Sweat had formed on the glass, and it was melted enough to have a rim of liquid at the top that looked full of sugar and rum and everything nice.
“Okay, we can swap. But if I don’t like it, you owe me something else.”
He didn’t smile, but his face twitched with slight amusement. Like he’d gone from a nine to a six on the unapproachable grump scale.
“All right,” he rumbled and moved his pink drink my way.
I happily took it, and since the guy made me feel a little flirty, I placed my lips on the rim exactly where his had just been. Smooth, sweet, cold relief poured down my throat and left a spread of warmth in my chest. Peaches and oranges danced in my mouth.
I sighed and took another sip. To my right, the guy’s shoulders dropped. Either in relaxation or disappointment that he didn’t have to get me another, I couldn’t tell.
Unashamedly, I twisted my stool so I was facing the tattooed man. I smiled to myself when I saw that he was already looking at me. His eyes shifted from my drink to the bartender in the corner to my lips. I fluttered my lashes a little and gave my sweetest I am but a fair maiden in need of rescue, sir knight kind of look.
The base of his neck turned red right above his black tee, and I quickly found him even more endearing. The stranger turned back to his own drink, taking a swig of the whiskey and not even flinching.
“Heavy drink for someone who’s not used to it.” His voice poured over me.
My shoulders slumped, my heart falling into a sad rhythm. “My day felt worthy of it.”
He tapped his finger against the glass, and I mocked his movement against my own. We each took a sip.
“Do…you want to talk about it?”
My eyes circled his face. He seemed mostly unapproachable, with his short answers and no hint of a smile anywhere to be seen. But then again, I saw his gaze drop to where my thighs met my skirt and stay there for a while, so maybe he was hoping to appear to be interested in my day. It was working. Well, that in combination with his scruff.
“You don’t seem like the talking type.”
At that, the corners of his lips pulled lightly and set back down. Like a small glimpse of light through the crack of a doorway.
“That’s why I asked if you wanted to talk about it.”
I laughed at that. This whole macho-man, big, tattooed, muscles, and strong jaw kind of thing was starting to work on me.
I crossed one leg over the other. “My favorite job in the world is considering closing up shop.” My only job, really. One of the two things I loved and cherished most in this world. Half of my whole life had a fifty-fifty shot of being ripped out of my hands.
My fingers reached for my glass, and I took a larger sip in hopes of forgetting. Verbalizing it made me feel somehow better and worse at the same time. It was such a first-world problem, but I was still allowed to be upset, right? I mean, sure, things could have been a whole lot worse, but was I not at least a little entitled to be emotional about it?
Dad always said feelings were like water. They could bow and flex to their surroundings, but they could also be like a pressure washer, forcing themselves into your chest, flaking off all the loose bits in your heart and leaving only the steady stuff. It felt more like a pressure washer tonight.
“It feels stupid when I say it out loud.” I scoffed, rolling my eyes at myself. “It’s not like it’s my family’s place or anything. I just really love it there, and now…I don’t know where I’ll go if they do end up selling.”
“That’s not stupid,” he grumbled, like he was fully prepared to argue with whatever part of my brain had caused me to believe it was. It was almost enough to make me smile again.
“Thanks, I guess.” My shoulders slumped still, and I twirled the cute blue umbrella floating in my drink with my pointer finger.
A moment of silence passed.
“What is your, uh…” A line formed between his brows.
“Job?” I supplied.
“That.”
I smiled, to him and myself both. “I work at a record store downtown. My job is everything and nothing at the same time. Some days I take in the new records, sort them by music genre, and then alphabetize. Some days I work the register and sweep the floors. I’m there alone a lot, and it’s just, I don’t know, my place, I guess.”
More than that, Sip ’n’ Spin was home in a lot of ways. It was bundled up with memories of Dad before his diagnosis. Before everything slowly fell apart around me.
The guy beside me didn’t say anything. He didn’t tell me everything was going to be all right or that there was something better out there for me. He merely nodded along and tapped his glass.
Feeling selfish for talking his ear off, I leaned in closer to the seat separating us.
“Why are you drinking tonight?”
“I just got back from being deployed to Germany. Felt right, I guess.” He shrugged, and the expression he wore as he stared at his half-empty glass looked like it felt anything but right. I couldn’t help but wonder where the mother of his kids was. If he’d slipped off a ring and hopped inside a bar in hopes that she wouldn’t notice. I hated that it was where my mind immediately went, but it wouldn’t have been the first time a married man had hit on me, and unless someone got down on a knee and popped the question my way, it wouldn’t be the last.
Maybe I should’ve asked rather than giving the guy the benefit of the doubt, but I dunno…something about those blunt answers and to-the-point directions made it seem like he didn’t possess the ability to even lie. He seemed like the type to tell you the 100 percent truth, even if it hurt. Or maybe especially when it hurt, judging by that scowl.
“Military?” I asked.
“PJ.”
My head tilted. I was somewhat versed in military positions because of my dad, but I was by no means an expert. He retired when I was fairly young, and I was spared most of the traveling and extensive knowledge regarding positions and deployments. The only pj’s I knew were pajamas. Specifically ones with Winnie the Pooh on them. Or when I felt frisky, my pink ones with tiny white bows. They made me feel like the princess of Genovia or something. Besides, if my apartment were to randomly catch fire in the night, I would prefer to have the hot firemen find me in pj’s fit for royalty.
“Pararescue,” he explained. “I fly in to save American forces when they’re injured.”
“Oh.” I nodded along, but I was imagining this giant guy hopping out of a plane and stitching someone up. A shudder worked through me. Screw the firemen.
With my head tilted to the side, I wondered if Dad had worked with pararescues. He’d never really mentioned that term before. Then again, he hadn’t been injured to the point of needing one, I didn’t think.
“My dad was a Navy SEAL!” My voice reached a few octaves higher than I was hoping for, but there were few people I could discuss these topics with, so I jumped at the opportunity.
He eyed me, and I continued. “You should hear some of the stories he tells me. Well, when he has a good day and remembers.”
His jaw ticked. “I’ve seen some things. I know.”
My lips turned up a little. I really liked this guy. No cutting corners, no small talk. Just very…real. What was the last thing I’d had that felt this real? The last person to be so blunt with me?
I sighed with that smirk and eyed his drink.
“All right, grumpy pants. Let’s get you something with an umbrella in it.”