Chapter Eight Adam
I’m reluctant to leave Eleanor alone while she’s still recovering from her anxiety attack, or whatever that just was, but I like to think I’ve become somewhat adept at interpreting body language over the years, and hers is reading loud and clear as back the fuck off, thanks.
I get it. I’m not exactly her favorite person.
Makes sense she wouldn’t want to be vulnerable in front of me.
At least not any more than she has to be, given the circumstances.
Anyway, she’s fierce to the point of it being borderline scary.
She can take care of herself. So I glance back at her only once more before pulling open the door and stepping into the bar.
I had hoped returning to the karaoke bar might jog my memory.
But as I take in the curved booths lining one side, the glass-walled private rooms in the back, all I get are flashes.
Eleanor with a microphone in one hand, the other high in the air as she belts out a Britney Spears song from fifteen years ago.
Me, serenading her with a Chappell Roan banger, and thinking that on my knees in front of Eleanor wasn’t a bad place to be.
It’s funny. I remember us being good. Amazing, even.
In reality we probably sounded like a couple of stray cats screaming in a back alley somewhere.
Can’t speak for Eleanor, but I’m not the strongest vocalist even on my best day.
I can carry a tune all right, at least when I’m sober.
But that drunk? I likely couldn’t have found the right pitch with a map.
I knuckle my glasses up the bridge of my nose and shuffle over to the bar. The bartender looks up as I approach and I give him a nod. “Hey. I called earlier, about leaving my license here?”
He wipes his hands on the bar rag over his shoulder. “What was your name again?”
“Adam Shaw.”
He turns and plucks my ID and a receipt from a tumbler by the register. Fucking finally, something is going my way.
He keeps hold of the ID and slides the paper over to me. I hold up the receipt and nearly have a stroke. It says we racked up a bill of over two thousand dollars. “This is a joke, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” the bartender replies in a flat voice. And yeah, no. I’m not convinced this guy has ever cracked a joke in his life.
I huff a sigh, and then pull out my wallet.
I’m too out of sorts to negotiate with this surly motherfucker.
I just want to get my ID so I can get my annulment and focus on more important things, like doing my job.
I pass him my credit card and try not to question every choice in my life that’s led me to this point while he rings it up.
It’s not until the machine beeps angrily that I remember. The card is frozen.
“Shit,” I say, as the bartender holds the card out between his middle and index fingers. I take it and he crosses his arms, a look on his face like I’m trying to scam him on purpose. “Uh. Let me make a call real quick.”
I pull out my phone and call my credit card company.
I navigate the automatic menu and am put through to a customer service rep named Peter, who I’m pretty sure is actually a bot.
Peter the bot tells me a purchase at a pawnshop last night was flagged as suspicious—fair enough—and that they sent me an automated text message alert asking me to confirm whether I had made the transaction.
Evidently, I replied indicating they should cancel the card instead.
“That was a mistake. Uncancel,” I say. Then, louder: “Un-fucking-cancel, Peter.”
“Uh…”
My spine straightens, a hot flush rushing up the back of my neck.
“Sorry, Mr. Shaw, there’s not really anything we can do once the card has been deactivated.”
“No, yeah, that’s—I get that.” I squeeze my eyes shut and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I apologize for being so rude. I… thought you were AI.”
“… nope. I’m a man.” Another awkward silence stretches out between us. “So we’ve sent a new card to the address on file, and it should arrive in five to seven business days.”
“Fantastic,” I grumble.
“Is there anything else I can do for you today?”
I’m still wondering what I could have possibly bought at a pawnshop last night, and am about to ask if Peter can provide any more information on that, when it hits me: the rings. “No,” I say with a sigh. “Nothing else.”
“Okay. Thank you for calling, have a great day.”
The line goes dead. I nod and slowly lower the phone. After a deep breath, which does not diminish the urge to find a wall to punch, I turn back to the bartender. Who, judging by the unimpressed look he’s giving me, heard enough from my side of that conversation to understand the situation.
Before I can come up with something to sway him, Eleanor comes striding in.
My gaze sweeps over her, clocking her stiff posture and the way her skin still looks a bit too pale.
But she lifts her chin and sidles up next to me, shooting me a steady look that almost reads as a dare.
Like she’s waiting for me to coddle her, so she can go ahead and bite my head off for it.
The worst possible thing I can do right now is give Eleanor the impression I pity her.
Which I don’t. I just… didn’t love seeing her like that.
The way she curled her knees into her chest, made herself small.
The way her hands shook. It was so backward from her usual confidence, like seeing a seasoned musician suddenly develop stage fright.
In the end, I settle on a gruff: “You good?”
The relief is easy to read in her expression, and she nods once in response as she sets her empty water glass on the bar. “All set here?”
“Not exactly.” I make a pained face. “You want the good news or the bad news first?”
Her expression turns to stone. “You’re kidding me.”
“Sadly, no. I’ve solved the mystery of where that bottle of Lagavulin came from.”
She takes a measured breath. Her hand is fisted on top of the bar, and I get the sense she’s barely restraining herself from turning around and flipping a table. “Okay. And the bad news?”
“Turns out we didn’t pay for it.” I straighten and slide the tab over for her to see.
“Fuckkk.”
“And I sorta need you to take care of the bill.” When Eleanor’s head whips up, I tack on: “Please.”
Despite my use of the magic word, this does not appear to go over well.
She laughs a bit incredulously. “Excuse me?”
“Look, I’ll reimburse you for my half—”
“Your half? Why should I pay any of it?”
“Pretty sure I didn’t drink an entire bottle by myself, Eleanor.
” This, she doesn’t argue. I’m not in the mood to argue either.
“Look, I can reimburse you for all of it, but not until we get home. My credit card is still frozen, and the company said I have to wait for my new one to come in the mail. He won’t give me back my ID until we settle the tab. ”
Eleanor’s gaze sinks back to the receipt. I fully expect her to cave at this point, because there’s no real alternative, but she taps her painted nails against the bar and shakes her head.
She doesn’t quite look me in the eye when she speaks again. “I can’t pay it.”
I’m ready for another round of the blame game, but her tone throws me off. She’s not being belligerent. And I realize: she isn’t saying she won’t pay it. She’s saying she can’t.
“Oh.”
“I’ve been traveling a lot for work, and I haven’t submitted all my reimbursements yet,” she goes on.
“So I only have about a hundred dollars in my debit account right now. And the other night when I was on Ambien, I sleep-shopped and bought like three pairs of shorts from Bergdorf’s.
I returned them, obviously, because no one needs one pair of sequined hot pants, let alone three, but they haven’t credited me for that yet either.
Plus, my sister’s wedding is coming up, and I’m the maid of honor, so there have been a lot of expenses this past month, and…
long story short, my credit card is maxed out. ”
All of this is said with an edge of defensiveness, like Eleanor fully expects me criticize her for not turning in her expense reports on time.
Or maybe she thinks I can’t relate—that because my dad is who he is, I’ve always had money.
But the biggest issue Mom had with my dad postdivorce was that he was inconsistent at best when it came to paying child support.
I know what it’s like to be strapped for cash.
“Can we use your debit card?” she asks.
“It’s not in my wallet.”
“I thought you said you’d only lost your ID?”
“No—I left my debit card at home. I haven’t used it in forever. I’m not sure I even remember my PIN.”
Eleanor holds a hand up. “Wait, I’m sorry. You gave me shit for not knowing my social media passwords, and you don’t even know your own PIN number?”
My jaw twitches. “It’s PIN, not PIN number.”
The look she sends me in reply is so scathing, I instinctively draw back a half step. “Point is, I only ever use it at ATMs, but I rarely need cash. Usually, I Venmo people.”
“So then Venmo me,” she grinds out.
I clear my throat. “Can’t do that either. There’s a weekly limit to how much they let you transfer, and since I pay my rent through Venmo, I’ve already hit that.…”
Eleanor’s lips are pressed so tight together, I get the sense it’s all she can do to hold in a scream. Relatable.
The bartender seems to have reached the end of his patience with us and ambles over, saving me from having to say anything at all. “You figure something out?”
“We’re still working on it,” I tell him.
“What’s your name?” Eleanor asks as she leans her forearms on the bar.
“Mark.”
“Mark,” she repeats, “maybe you could help me out.” She smiles and bites her bottom lip. Somehow she manages to make her eyes look Bambi-big. Right now there is zero evidence that she just had a panic attack. It would seem Eleanor is a master at compartmentalizing.
“My friend and I have been having the worst day,” she goes on. “You can’t even imagine.”
I look from her to the bartender, to see if any of this is working on him. He appears remarkably unswayed.