2
Unlike a sprain that needs a cast or a cut that can use some Neosporin, emotional pain can’t be cured with any over-the-counter remedy. But it can be dulled, if only temporarily, by regarding the bottom of a whiskey-filled glass. Repeatedly.
I’ve planted myself in a dimly lit bar in the farthest corner of the resort, handed over my card, which I’m sure will be declined soon, and taken a shot for every moment I think about my—no, not my—the apartment that once held my furniture, my most treasured items, empty.
Ah, another shot.
It doesn’t even burn as it goes down. It tastes enough like water that I lift the glass to smell it, to make sure the heavily tattooed bartender hasn’t decided to steal my emotional medicine from me.
The scent of whiskey hits my nostrils, reminding me of my father sitting by our old coffee table, watching the game on a TV while I hovered nearby, ready to adjust the battered antenna every time the signal went out.
And that memory has me downing the rest of my glass.
I’ve lost track of how much I’ve drunk, but last time I looked at one of the flat screens hanging above the glossy mahogany bar, the teams on the screen were white jerseys versus blue ones. Now it’s red versus yellow, and maybe a different sport? Football or fútbol?
I’m very buzzed. And there’s a consistent feeling of a nail being hammered into the back of my eyes, sloppily pulled out, and hammered again. Maybe it’s a migraine, maybe it’s from all the drinking.
Maybe, I think as someone glides a glass of water over the countertop while heavily ringed fingers remove my empty glass, I’m dehydrated.
My head weighs approximately one hundred pounds, so turning it to the side takes extra effort.
There’s amusement in those familiar hazel eyes and concern in his furrowed brows as he meets my blurry gaze. The man takes a seat on the stool beside me.
“Stranger!” I say, patting his arm. I meant to tap him, but my hand squeezes his biceps to confirm—yes, they are as hard as they look. Nice.
If he cares at all about my assessment, he doesn’t show it. “Good to see you didn’t sprain an ankle sprinting away in those heels,” he says in greeting.
My eyes widen, and my hand grips my hair—my real hair without the wig. Not that it matters anymore; clearly, he recognized me, and if he didn’t, the whole stranger greeting from me gave it away.
“I was concerned,” he says at my silence.
Unlike me, who needed a shower immediately after our first meeting, he’s wearing the same outfit. I’ve opted for an oversized shirt and jeans meant for a more casual environment. Something that I didn’t notice until now.
“I’m honored.” To be worried about by a beautiful stranger who doesn’t even know my name.
His dimple makes an appearance, a heavy shadow on his cheek under the ambient lighting, and I’m not sure if I kept that last part in my head.
“I’m honored to have witnessed someone down a beer and three glasses of whiskey and still remain upright.
” He gestures to the glass of water. “For your accomplishment, I’ve brought you a gift. ” He pushes the water closer to me.
I hold a hand to my chest. “Wow, it’s exactly what I wanted.”
“I saved up all year for it,” he says so earnestly, I laugh, and some of the misery I’ve been collecting oozes out of me.
I down the water in one go, then catch the eye of the bartender. He raises his brows, both questioning if I want another one and inquiring if I am still coherent enough to keep drinking. I hold up a finger, then look to my right. “Want a drink?”
He thinks about it, then gestures two toward the bartender.
“So,” Stranger says, “what has you drinking the night away on your own?”
“So many things,” I say as the bartender drops our glasses.
I collect mine, clink a cheers to Stranger’s before he even grips it, and take a sip.
“My eviction, my inability to get a new real job, my dreams coming undone, and it wasn’t a major concern until recently, but for some reason, speaking to you reminds me of my failure to maintain any semblance of a romantic relationship.
So, in other words, completely hitting rock bottom. ”
“Oh.”
I thought about my eviction again, so I pick up his glass and down half his drink.
His eyes widen so comically that it yanks a laugh from me, but even I can hear the bitter aftershock trailing behind it.
I point at him. “You asked a simple question, and I just dumped all my life problems on you. Has your curiosity dwindled?”
So slight I nearly miss it, his head cocks to the side. I only catch it because a stray, dark wave of hair falls over his forehead. He drinks, and my gaze catches on how his lips meet my lipstick print on the rim. “I still want to know your name.”
My head spins like whatever holds my brain steady in my skull is starting to crumble. I blink until it dulls, but the drinks start catching up with me.
“Lucinda,” I say, because people only refer to me as Lucy. Lucinda doesn’t even feel like a real name at this point. I’m so drunk my own fingertips don’t feel properly attached to my body.
“Lucinda,” he repeats, and the name coming from him sounds sultry and delicate. “Is that your real name?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” I gesture for a refill as the bartender walks by. “Yours?”
“Anders,” he says. “You know, there are less liver-endangering ways to deal with hard times.”
“Like what? Therapy?” I scoff, as if I can afford such a thing.
“Like going for a walk, sitting out in the sun, reading a book.”
I slam my hand on the counter. “Did you just suggest exercise to make me feel better? Torture? The thing that killed John F. Kennedy?”
“I think you’re mixing up your world leaders.”
“Get out of my sight.”
His low chuckle doesn’t help my already tipsy balance. “Forgive me,” he says. “I just thought you may regret this many drinks tomorrow morning.”
“You always show this much concern over strangers?”
“Only the pretty ones who like to drink whiskey.”
It should be impossible, both from my drunken state and my all-around wallowing, but a zing of awareness shoots between my thighs.
I wouldn’t say he’s conventionally handsome, not that boy-next-door lead from a rom-com.
He has the tall, dark, and handsome thing, sure, but the lines on his face are a little more complex, like every tiny scar or slight smile line comes with a story attached.
Neither boy next door nor bad boy, but on the border of both, which makes me study his crooked nose and the sharp angles of his face too long to be polite.
The bartender places a dish of truffle fries and steak tips before us.
“Fuel,” Anders says, pushing the fries toward me. “I thought you might need something to settle all the whiskey.”
I immediately shove a fry in my mouth, moaning at the taste of warm Parmesan and salt. Whoever invented fries, I hope they had a long, fulfilling life. “So, you must have been watching me a while to have ordered food for me.”
He clears his throat. “I was paying for dinner when I saw you stumble to the bar.”
Stumble. Because I’ve had three—wait, make that four—whiskeys here but raided the minibar in my room before deciding to make my misery everyone else’s problem. With every sentence we exchange, I feel each sip I took in a wave of dizziness.
“It feels suspicious how nice you’re being to me,” I say; as my head grows heavy, I lean my elbow on the counter and hold my chin. “Twice now you’ve caught me in poor form, but you sit by me, drink with me, order me food. Are you trying to sleep with me?”
He blinks, his mouth opening and shutting as he thinks about what to say.
I shake my head. “If you are, I can’t anyway. Not right now.” Wow, the alcohol has effectively removed the little filter I have. “I’m too sensitive. I’ll either fall in love with you on the spot or instantly burst into tears. Maybe another time.”
He gives me a small, not quite happy, smile, maybe a little sympathetic. “You’re going through a hard time,” he says softly. “I’m not busy, so I thought I’d keep you company.”
I’d tilt my head if it wasn’t so heavy. “Not to be a pessimist, but people usually do things for reasons other than just being a good person.”
“That is absolutely being a pessimist,” he says, then sighs. “Maybe I have an ulterior motive.”
“So you want to sleep with me?”
He gives me a smile. “Your honesty is attractive enough for that to be a future endeavor.”
My body warms, particularly between my thighs. I cross them. “But that’s not it,” I say, not too drunk to miss that.
He nods. “I’m here for a wedding.”
I raise my brow. “Is attending such a miserable experience that you’d rather keep the company of a woman you found beneath a bush?”
“You say it like it’s a bad thing,” he jokes, then adds, lightly on the tails of it, “It’s my first love’s wedding.” I choke on my fry. “First and only, actually.”
I hand him my refill as soon as the bartender places it by the fries.
“Thanks,” he says, downing it in one single gulp. He drops the glass on the counter. “Have I earned the reason you were hiding beneath a bush?”
“What’s your first love’s name?”
“Anna.”
Not Eliza, so I don’t have to lie too much about why I’m here. But I wonder if Anders would enjoy me wrecking his first love’s wedding.
Then, a thought clicks. “Wait, you went to check out that plot of land with your first love’s fiancé?”
He nods. “Lucas is my best friend.”
“Your best friend is marrying your first love?” I shout, a burst of energy sliding through me. I grip his face in my hands. “Why are you here? Why would you subject yourself to this kind of agony? Are you a masochist?”
He places a hand over mine. For a moment, I think he means to remove it, but instead, he presses my palm closer to his cheek. Does the caress of a stranger offer comfort he couldn’t admit he needed? “It’s complicated.”
“Life really sucks sometimes, huh?”
He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and I have the urge to press my lips against their lids. “Yeah,” he whispers.