Nick #2
“Okay.” She nonchalantly grabs another piece of candy and pops it in her mouth.
The movement is strangely hypnotic and beautiful.
A freckle just below her lip teases me. It’s just a simple, lone freckle, but it might as well be the most fascinating treasure, and now all I can think about is how it would taste in a kiss.
Fuck. Just be normal, Nick. I have no business fantasizing about her, not when I know sleeping with her wouldn't fix what's broken in me. More importantly, she deserves so much better than a mess of a man who self-medicates with sex.
At least, I used to. Now, I'm a man seeking solace at a dive bar alone.
I guess I'm more like Hal than I realize.
She shuffles the deck a few times before dealing out seven cards to each of us. She sets the rest of them face down in the middle, then picks up her stack of cards. “You can go first.”
I stare at her for a beat. “What are you doing?”
“We are playing Go Fish.”
I sigh, then take the seven playing cards she dealt to me. I reluctantly put them in order, keeping one eye on her. “Fives.”
She scoffs playfully. “That’s rude. You’re supposed to ask.”
“Pardon me,” I mumble. “I haven’t exactly played this game in the last thirty years.”
She hums. “Pity. It’s what all the cool kids are playing these days.”
I chuckle. “I was more of an Uno kid.”
“You would be.”
“Ah, let me guess: you were the player everyone ganged up on.”
She works her jaw a moment. “Listen. There should be a limit to how many times a player gets a Draw Four.”
I laugh. “So you’re a sore loser.”
“I’m not sore.”
“But … you are a loser?”
“Stop.” She laughs, nudging my arm.
“You started it.”
She rolls her lips as a blush blooms across her cheeks. Lifting her cards higher, she pretends to study them with intense concentration.
Then she peeks over the top.
When our eyes meet, she immediately looks away.
I don't. And for some pathetic reasons, I wish she would look back.
My eyes wander lower, following the graceful line of her neck until … Just above the collar of her t-shirt, there is a small, faint scar under her clavicle. “What happened with—?” I pat my upper chest before gesturing to hers.
She looks down. “Oh, that? That’s my mediport.” She pulls down her collar, exposing the tiny lump under her skin. “I went through chemo several years back.”
A sharp ache settles beneath my ribs as my grip tightens around my cards. “I … I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Hey.” Her smile softens. “It's okay. I’m okay.” She adjusts her shirt. “I was fortunate. They caught it when I was twenty-five. Had an ovary removed. Did six rounds of chemo, and—” she spreads her arms wide with a flourish—“ta-da! No evidence of disease for four years now.”
For a moment, everything feels oddly surreal. Medicine has taught me the bitter lesson that there is no life without death. I might not know much about Leah, but the thought of her story ending before our paths ever crossed bothers me—probably more than it should.
“My doctor reminds me that she can remove my port, but …” She shrugs, a wave of worry flashing in her eyes. “I guess I'm just superstitious.”
A silence passes between us, save for the clatter of a game of pool in the corner and the soft music from the jukebox. Leah’s words hang in the air, her simple confession subtle, but vulnerable. Like a small crack revealing what she holds behind all that sunshine.
I reach over and steal a piece of candy. “When you're ready.”
A warmth spreads across her face as she begins to relax. “When I’m ready.”
Before the conversation can sink any deeper, the bell above the front door chimes. Leah's attention drifts toward a couple scrambling in, completely soaked by the rain. The familiar sparkle returns to her eyes as she serves them a pair of IPAs.
“Alright, mister.” She collects her hand of cards. “No more of that cancer talk.”
I nod. “You got it.”
“Good.” She reorganizes her cards. “Because if I beat you, I don’t want to hear any excuses about you taking it easy on me.”
“If you beat me?”
“Ah, good point.” Her lip curls. “When I beat you—”
I bark out a laugh. “Bold claim from a woman personally victimized by the Draw Four card.”
She snorts. “Just play, cowboy.”
I grin, keeping my gaze on her. “Do you have any fives?”
Without breaking eye contact, she pops another peach ring into her mouth. “Go fish.”
The rain continues to drum against the roof as we lazily play a few rounds of cards.
Between hands, Leah refills drinks, cashes out the few tabs, and even trades stories with some of the regulars.
It’s impossible not to notice how easily she connects with people, putting them at ease and making them comfortable enough to open up.
Somewhere between rounds of Go-Fish, the aches from my day stopped feeling so deep.
Hanging out with Leah has been easy. Simple.
Like purely existing is good enough. When she tends to her duties, I catch myself counting down the steps until she comes back.
She returns to me this time with a smirk on her lips and a tiny wrinkle between her brows.
“Are you kidding me?” She chuffs. “Emmitt Smith, hands down.”
I groan, throwing down my cards. “You think Smith is the GOAT of running backs?”
“I mean, he holds the all-time career record—”
“Yeah, but look at his offensive line. Nate Newton. Larry Allen.” I tick off each name on my fingers. “Barry Sanders spent his entire career carrying Detroit on his back. Half the man's highlights start with him getting hit behind the line of scrimmage.”
She smirks, leaning against the bar on her elbows. “You hate group projects, don’t you?”
I snicker, holding my hands up. “Guilty as charged.”
A buzzing vibration interrupts our laughter. Leah reacts immediately, pulling her phone out of her pocket. Her face brightens as she reads the message, her lower lip catching briefly between her teeth. She types a reply before tucking her cell away.
Oh. She’s taken—not that it matters. It’s not even my business.
“Sorry about that,” she says, taking the cards and shuffling them.
“It’s fine.” I wave my hand. “Boyfriend?”
A mischievous sparkle flashes in her eye as she beams. “Better.” She puts her cards facedown on the bar and digs her phone back out. She swipes across her screen a few times before passing me her cell. “Meet my handsome boy.”
I huff under my breath as I stare at the solid mass of a white pit bull, his smile wide and inviting with his tongue lolling halfway out the side. “What’s his name?”
“Angus.”
“Fitting.” I pass the phone back to her. “How old is he?”
“Let’s see … I’ve had him for almost five years, and I rescued him when he was three ...”
“So, he’s an old man.”
She gasps. “Who’s going to live forever,” she corrects.
“Oh, of course.” I grin as we both chuckle knowingly. “He looks like a good boy.”
“He’s a very good boy. I didn’t realize when I got him the different ways he would rescue me.” Her expression softens as she stares at her lock screen. “Anyway, my sister-in-law texted me to let me know that she stopped in, and he has been walked, fed, and cuddled.”
“I’m guessing she does this for you on the nights you work?”
“Yep—well, it’s only on Tuesday nights.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “You’re only here on Tuesday nights?”
“Which is why I don’t need you scaring her off.
” Skye sneaks in behind her, coming out to make her rounds.
“My regulars only want to work the weekends, Wednesday karaoke night, college night, and Monday Night Football because of the—” She rubs her thumb against her fingers.
“I don’t want to cut anyone, so I decided to offer a recurring Tuesday night shift with better pay. ”
“And I was looking for part-time that wouldn’t interfere too much with my teaching job.”
Skye wraps an arm around Leah. “And she’s good, right?”
My eyes linger on Leah’s for a second too long. “Meh, she’s alright.”
She squints. “He’s just bitter that I beat him at Go Fish—”
“I went easy on her—”
“You did not, you fibber.”
“Fibber? Is that supposed to hurt my feelings?”
We fall into comfortable laughs, and God, it’s fun hearing her so tickled over something so mundane. There’s something about it that’s freeing.
Skye’s eyes bounce between us, curiously raising an eyebrow. “Right. So … carry on.”
As she disappears into the nearly-empty place, the familiar twang of a country song floats over the speakers. Leah’s smile doubles in size as she bobs her head to the beat.
“George Strait fan?” I ask.
She gasps. “Mind your manners, cowboy. He’s King George Strait to you.
” She giggles. “And yeah. My mama would listen to his music while she sewed in her craft room. I’d come in and dance around, as if I knew how to two-step—which I didn’t.
” She glances around the open floor in front of the bar. “Do you want to dance?”
My eyes widen. “I—uh, no. That’s just—no.”
“Oh c’mon. It’ll be fun—”
“When a lady asks you to dance, you take her hand.” Hal interrupts from down the way. “The Good Lord will always provide the music and the floor.” He stands from his bar stool, finishes his beer, then extends his arm to Leah.
She looks back at me one last time before taking Hal’s hand. The moment they step onto the dance floor, I regret my decision.