Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
ELLIE
My dead mother just called me.
Okay, obviously she didn’t call me, but I cannot overstate the absolute mindfuck of seeing Mom on my caller ID five years to the day after her death.
Dad, one. Ellie, zero.
Not that he was trying to be funny—he would never pull a joke like that on me. Poor guy didn’t realize the trauma he’d inflict with a simple phone call announcing he’d found Mom’s phone while going through some of her things. From said phone. I can’t believe he’s still paying to keep it active.
He’s at home, excited to be scrolling her saved pictures and messages. And I’m fourteen hundred miles away, drinking alone in a bar at two thirty in the afternoon. You could say we process differently.
“Another?” The bartender interrupts my staring contest with the empty shot glass.
Glancing up, I feel the burn take over my cheeks as I realize I don’t know how to answer him. I think if I ask the bartender the question that’s on the tip of my tongue, he’s going to cut me off.
I’m definitely not drunk and I don’t think I can handle the embarrassment of him and the single other bar patron thinking I am. Because I’ve only taken two shots.
I think.
How did I lose track after so few? Why don’t they use a new glass for each one? I came here to get a specific level of intoxicated, and two shots is too few, but four would be way too many. This is a finely tuned process, you see.
I’m debating which error would be preferable when the bartender raises an eyebrow and the side of his mouth ticks up. “Everything okay?”
Crap. He probably thinks I’m already drunk.
Maybe the blush will make him think I’m just really shy?
He’s pretty cute—mid-thirties or so with dirty-blond hair that curls around his ears.
He’s quite tall and broad; I’d have guessed he was a football player if it weren’t for the fact that he’s working at this bar right now.
He’s got a decently well-groomed beard and bright blue eyes that are currently twinkling at me in amusement.
Hopefully he just thinks I have a crush. I clear my throat. “Yeah, sorry, just…trying to decide.” I point my finger at the shot glass and feel like slapping a palm against my forehead. Obviously he knows I am referring to the drink he just asked me about.
I am unintentionally selling this shy-girl thing.
His smile stretches across his face and he glances at the only other person at the bar before looking back at me. “You visiting from out of town?”
My eyes flick over to the other guy a few seats down from me.
He has his baseball cap pulled low and is nursing a light beer.
I think he’s around the same age as the bartender, but it’s hard to tell with his head turned toward the TV in the far corner.
As far as I know, he hasn’t looked at me since I came in fifteen minutes ago. Must be sports.
When I passed this place on my walk to a different bar, there was just something about the unassuming nature that drew me in.
It felt like the perfect place to quietly accomplish my mission.
It’s a narrow, long room with a bar top spanning almost the entire right side.
Liquor bottles are stacked on the wall behind it with exposed brick peeking through.
The two TVs at opposite ends of the bar are loud enough to hear but not so much that they’re the focus.
High-top tables line the opposite side of the room, the wall there covered in a random collage of framed memorabilia.
It’s somehow both eclectic and simple, like it can’t quite decide if it’s a sports bar or an old-school pub.
Hat Guy’s glass makes a thud on the bar as he sets it down, drawing my attention back.
I look over at the bartender and wonder why he glanced at him before asking me a question.
“Uh, no actually. I just moved here.” The reminder makes my stomach clench. Okay, I just need to figure out my shot consumption and then I can get out of here and commence Project Forget Today and That Mindfuck Phone Call.
“Hate it that much already?”
I whip my head to the right in surprise. Hat Guy was listening, apparently. Oh frick, Hat Guy is hot. He’s got a Clark Kent vibe going, sans glasses, and…I need to stop staring before they mutually agree I have to leave for being weird. Crap, what did he ask?
“Sorry?” I feel my brow furrow a bit.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone come in here and slam two shots in the middle of the afternoon. Trying to stay warm? Newbies always struggle with the cold. No offense.” He has the decency to wince a little on the last words.
“Two!” Shoot. “I mean, um, excuse me?” I look over at the bartender, who is right where I left him, wearing an amused expression.
He definitely thinks I’m crazy. Oh well, I’ll be out of here soon.
“I’ve decided I’d like another. Please.” I tilt my head toward my empty glass and give him a polite smile.
He keeps the amused look in place and nods, glancing at Superman over there again before turning to grab the tequila.
I twist on my stool to face the most handsome stranger I’ve ever met. Is this some gift from the universe? A little distraction to help me through this shit day? If so, I’ll take it.
“Sorry about that,” I apologize, fully aware of the impression I’m leaving with these two. “Nothing wrong with Minneapolis, no. Not all that different from where I’m from in the weather department, actually.” I feel my face fall at the thought of home. Grief is such a bitch.
Clark’s mouth is slightly downturned and, dammit, even that’s super hot. Thanks for the eye-candy diversion, universe.
Focusing on using my normal, adult conversation skills, I try to dispel his frown of what I assume is confusion.
“Just a pretty bad day.” I shrug. “Kind of a long, weird story, but figured I’d try to forget it a little.” I shake my empty shot glass for emphasis and then set it back down.
Superman gives a slow nod at that, but his slight frown remains. I think back to what he said and feel myself talking before I can make a decision to stop.
“Did you know that a ‘beer blanket’ is actually a total misconception? You just think you’re warm because the blood vessels close to your skin expand when you drink, but your body temperature is actually getting lower.
So it will feel like it’s working for a little, but then you’ll just be colder than you would have been without any alcohol,” I explain, probably totally unnecessarily. Hot people make me nervous.
“Noted,” he says, a hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.
“I swear I wasn’t a nerdy buzzkill in college.”
That hint of a smile turns into a full grin and I have to force myself to look away before I embarrass myself any more.
I turn back to the bartender as he refills my shot glass.
I suppose refills make more sense than a new glass for every shot, but damn.
Could’ve been signing the check by now if I had known how many shots I had taken.
I grab the glass that’s now full and pause before raising it up. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“Nate,” the bartender says, amusement slipping into his tone.
“Thanks, Nate,” I say as I lift my drink and then bring it to my lips to shoot back. Blegh. I close my eyes and relish the burn running down my throat. Soon I’ll have that Fuzzy Haze that puts a slight blur to my dark thoughts and makes the day bearable.
January eleventh is always hard. I know that’s not going to change. But sometimes there are moments… Moments where I forget for just a second that my mom is gone. And the tidal wave of fresh grief that follows when I remember is always crushing.
So pair that with today’s date and a delusional moment of thinking I might hear my mom’s voice one more time? Absolutely debilitating.
Feeling my chest tighten and a lump form in my throat, I shove a mental block in place as fast as I can. Almost there, just have to close my tab and hightail it out of here.
I open my eyes to a very concerned-looking Nate. He’s tracking something on my face, and to my extreme embarrassment I feel a tear rolling down my cheek. Goddammit. I wipe it away and force a smile.
“Can I close out, please?” I say as cheerily as I can manage, trying to hide the shakiness in my voice.
Nate nods and heads to the far end of the bar, passing Clark Kent on the way.
Again he makes eye contact with him and I almost ask if they’re friends before I realize I don’t really want to initiate any more conversation today.
As Nate prints and brings over the check, I grab my jacket from the back of my chair and slide off to stand and slip it on.
I sign and then go to grab my keys, accidentally knocking them off the bar instead.
“You’re not driving, right?” Nate asks with far more genuine concern than I would expect from a random bartender.
I bend to pick up the keys and give him a quick, reassuring smile. “Nope, wouldn’t do that. Just walking home.” I angle my head in the general direction of my apartment and hope the bitterness in my voice wasn’t noticeable.
I’m about to turn and leave when Nate glances at Clark again. I’ve decided one question won’t hurt and open my mouth to ask how they know each other when Clark surprises me for the second time.
“Want me to walk you home?”
There’s no suggestive look or anything really that gives me creeper vibes. But you can never be too safe and I’m fresh off a true crime documentary binge.
“Oh, thanks. But I’m okay. It’s pretty close and, you know, not trying to get Ted Bundy’d or anything like that.
” I let out a low laugh and replay that in my head.
Ted Bundy’d? Now he thinks I think he’s a serial killer.
And a hot one at that. I feel a blush heat my cheeks for the millionth time and tighten my purse on my shoulder.
Nate and Clark Kent—I wonder what his real name is—share a long look and I catch Nate raising his eyebrows. I think I’d normally feel embarrassed over the idea of them silently communicating about me, but the Fuzzy Haze has started to seep into my body and I just need to focus on getting home.
“All right, well, bye, and thanks again.” I smile tightly, glancing between the two of them, and then turn to head out.
I try not to think about what they will say about me once I’m gone. Time to succumb to the Haze and forget this fucking day.