Chapter 4
As I step inside the bar, I’m temporarily blinded by the darkness. Maguire’s is one of those pubs where time stands still—no windows, no clocks, just walls that reek of alcohol and cigarettes.
The music is always sixties rock played at a volume one notch above a whisper, and no one except me is under fifty.
The bar and decor are nothing more than a sea of dark wood and framed Irish cartoons.
It’s the kind of place where no one would bat an eye if you drank alone, but they might if you didn’t.
I remember the first time I came to Maguire’s.
I attracted some confused looks. What was a lanky yuppie businesswoman doing in a joint like this?
Then I ordered a tequila straight, sat at the bar by myself, and they realized I was one of them.
Someday I’ll talk to my therapist about why I’m more at ease around sixty-year-old alcoholics than my peers, but today is not that day. And honestly, I know why.
I wave to Phil and Vince, two other regulars wearing trucker hats that have been on this earth longer than I have, and order them two beers on me.
Phil, Vince, and I rarely talk, just wave.
I slide in three barstools that are sticking out from the railing—no reason we can’t be tidy—and grab my usual seat at the end of the bar, the tenth out of ten.
I throw my purse on the barstool next to me so that no one even thinks about sitting there.
“How we doing today, Mami?” asks Carlos, the entirely-too-good-looking-to-work-here bartender.
His come-hither voice still carries a hint of Spanish inflection from growing up in East L.A.
, and an indecipherable tattoo peeks out from underneath his formfitting black T-shirt, stretching across his left collarbone.
He drops a napkin and a double tequila in front of me without asking. I remove the minuscule black straw (as Phil says, straws are for wimps) and straighten the napkin so its top edge is parallel with the bar.
I’ve never understood why Carlos works here.
He should be at a Magic Mike–style nightclub where bartenders rip their shirts open and flip vodka bottles behind their backs.
I can never picture him doing anything mundane like running an errand or cleaning his house.
He seems to exist for pleasure—for the night.
I slam the tequila down and make my best effort not to screw up my face as the burning liquid rolls down my throat, a familiar warmth spreading; the frantic hum in my skull, the electrical storm of my thoughts, quiets, if only for a moment.
“I guess that answers my question,” he says, refilling my glass. He closes his graduate Design Drawing textbook and sticks a highlighter behind his ear. He’s studying to be an architect, though this job gives him more practice as a therapist.
I shake my head and take a small sip of glass number two. “We’re not doing well, Carlos. We’re not doing well at all.”
He runs his long fingers through a mane of shiny black hair and squints. “Why’s that?”
His dark, stormy eyes meet mine, his brow furrowed with a depth that feels more than professional. My face flushes—from the tequila or his gaze, I can’t tell.
“I got suspended. One month.”
A laugh escapes his throat. “Really? You? What’d you do, steal some office supplies?” A corner of his lip curls.
“I wish. No, it’s a long story.”
“I’m here all night.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Okaaay. So, what will you do now?” He grabs a rag and wipes down the bar as he listens, his rippled forearms flexing, always in efficient motion, master of his space.
I take another sip of tequila. The knot in my chest loosens. “Ugh, I don’t know. Binge-watch Netflix? Take up knitting? I’m embarrassed to say this, but I’ve been working so much I don’t even have any hobbies right now.”
He points to the worn mahogany bar. “This is a hobby.”
“I meant healthy hobbies.”
“You could travel?”
“Yeah, funny you mention that. A family friend offered to host me at their lake house in Minnesota for the rest of the summer, but I’m not sure.”
“You’re not sure? Sounds like a nice vacation to me.”
“I know, but it’s complicated. I haven’t been back to Minnesota for eighteen years, and my time there was…difficult.”
“Why?”
I take another long drink of tequila until the glass is empty, hoping to drown the memory.
“Long story short, I wasn’t the coolest kid growing up, and my dad had issues.
Olivia, their daughter, was basically my only friend.
But then she had a terrible accident, and shortly after, my family moved to Boston.
She visited me, but it wasn’t the same; then she sort of disappeared from my life. ”
“Yeah, I know how that goes.”
“I just feel like the whole thing’s going to be awkward.”
He pours me another tequila and rubs his thumb and index finger along his collarbone, revealing a little more of his mystery tattoo.
I point to it. “I’ve always meant to ask you—what’s that tattoo? You’re always touching it.”
His face reddens. “You promise you won’t give me shit?”
“I swear.”
He pulls the T-shirt down, revealing a smooth, muscled chest with a woman’s face inked onto it. “It’s my mom. She passed when I was sixteen, and because I was a dumbass sixteen-year-old, I thought the best thing to do to remember her was slap her face on my chest.”
“Aw, that’s sweet.”
“Fuck off, and stop trying to turn the conversation back to me. Let’s talk about you. You’re being offered a free stay at a lake house for a month and you’re turning it down? The sun, the water, a little tequila—I’d take it in a second.”
I sip my tequila and swallow hard. “So, if I decide to go, I assume that means you’d come with me?”
He scans the room to ensure nobody is listening, then smiles and lowers his voice. “I’ve got work and school, so I couldn’t come for the whole time, but I could probably sneak out for a couple of days and visit you up there.”
“Seriously? I was half joking.”
“Seriously. It could be a fun adventure.”
The hairs on my arms stand up, and I try to suppress a grin. I run my finger along the rim of the glass. “Hmm. Do I want to go to Minnesota? How would the Parkers feel about my inviting a strange man? I’ll think about it.”
A smile spreads across his face. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming. And I don’t know if I appreciate being called a ‘strange man,’ but I get it. Just let me know. If it doesn’t work, no hard feelings. I’ll be here when you get back.” He pours himself a shot and toasts. “To adventure.”
I sense my cheeks rising as I clink his glass with mine. “To maybe.”