Chapter 2
JOSH
“You can not be serious! You’re breaking this off right before Christmas?”
The cute brunette behind the bar paces to the other end before whirling and stomping back toward where I’m sitting.
“This is such a dick move!” she exclaims into the phone she’s holding to her ear. “I went to the most annoying wedding ever with you! You owe me!”
She stops right in front of where I’m sitting, but she’s not focused on me.
She’s staring over my shoulder, and I assume she’s picturing whoever’s on the other end of this call.
From the murderous look on her face and the way she’s holding the knife she was previously using to slice limes, I’m very glad it’s not me.
She’s probably five-five or six, maybe a hundred pounds. She’s wearing leggings and a long flannel shirt with knee-high boots that have a two-inch heel. Her long dark hair is gathered into a ponytail. She’s very pretty and doesn’t appear dangerous.
Unless you look directly into her eyes at the moment.
I shiver. She wants someone’s balls on a platter.
“This was the agreement!” she says. “You promised! What am I supposed to do now? It’s in two days!”
I look down at the best shrimp po’boy sandwich I’ve ever had.
And that’s saying something. The woman who cooks at the restaurant where I usually eat is a hell of a cook.
I’m not that partial to po’boys generally.
They’re a little boring in my opinion. Not that I’d ever even think of uttering such a thing inside the borders of this state.
Jesus, I’m not an idiot. But when there are things like muffalettas or jambalaya or even just red beans and rice, why would I go with a plain sandwich like a po’boy?
All of those other things are far superior.
But this one? It’s the remoulade sauce. It’s gotta be.
Or the seasoning on the shrimp. Or the breading on the shrimp.
Or all of the above. The bread is pretty fucking good too.
I want another bite, but it feels a little rude to keep eating in front of the bartender while she’s clearly getting dumped right before Christmas.
That really sucks.
I can relate.
Kind of.
Sure, I was dumped like eighteen months ago, not just before Christmas, but still.
Actually…can I call it a dumping when we weren’t really together, and Sierra just finally officially told me it was never going to happen and that she’d fallen in love with someone else?
Sure, felt like a dumping.
Not that I had anything to compare it to. I’d never been dumped before.
But it had really sucked and had been followed by three nights of booze and wallowing in my feelings.
I don’t remember the wallowing, but the people around me finally got sick of it and told me about it when they said I’d had enough time and needed to pull myself together.
And then there was three months ago when she’d gotten married to the guy.
That had sucked a lot, too. My friends had given me another twenty-four hours of drunken wallowing, but not a second more. They claimed that I should have already been past that from the eighteen months prior.
They probably had a point.
“Asshole!”
I’m pulled from my thoughts of Sierra by the bartender slamming her phone down on the bar right by my plate.
“Oh shit!” She immediately picks it back up and checks the screen. She sags in relief, then gives me a sheepish smile. “I can’t afford to replace another broken phone. I just got this one after throwing my last one at the wall.”
I lift a brow.
“I’m not nice to phones. That’s what my mom says. Right after she says no, I can’t have or borrow money to replace whichever one I just smashed.”
“There’s been more than the one against the wall?”
“One with a shoe. Broke the heel on the shoe too. That I extra regretted. And there was one I threw at a TV. Broke the TV too, but it wasn’t mine and he deserved it, so I didn’t regret that.”
She smiles.
Well, that’s something. I didn’t smile for a week after Sierra dumped me.
It was a dumping. Come on. Telling a person that it’s never going to happen between you when you’ve known the person for years, know the person followed you to another state, and is obviously in love with you? That qualifies.
“Oh, and I ran over a phone once,” the bartender adds. “But that phone wasn’t mine, so I’m not sure if I should count that.”
“Well, that wasn’t being nice to the phone,” I point out.
“True.” She grins. “Do you need a refill?”
“Sure.”
She tops off my soda.
“Anyway, sorry about that,” she says, waving toward her intact phone. “I’ve been waiting for him to call and tell me what time he’ll be here tomorrow.” She shakes her head and mutters, “Fucker.”
“Uh, no problem,” I tell her. “Sometimes you just gotta deal with the shit as it comes up.”
I’m the only one sitting at the bar. It’s just past seven on December twentieth.
We’re in Louisiana, so it’s not like the weather is bad, but I’ve gotten the impression in the twenty minutes I’ve been here that the town is all home getting ready for the big Christmas festival that starts tomorrow.
There was the usual dinner rush here in the coffee shop-slash-diner-slash-bar, but everyone headed out after eating rather than hanging around.
Perks and Rec is an interesting establishment. It’s a coffee shop from six a.m. to four p.m., then a bar from four p.m. until midnight. The front door invites people to “perk up” in the morning and then “recreate” in the evening.
But they take it even further. Half of the building—actually including the outdoor patio—is decorated in bright colors—yellow, pink, and white—and holds bookcases, a coffee bar, and a bakery case along with overstuffed upholstered chairs and round white bistro tables.
The other half features dark blue walls and ceiling, twinkle lights, a slate gray floor, high granite-topped tables with a fully stocked bar, and a corner stage.
They serve food all day, but the menu changes from breakfast and light lunch options to dinner at four.
I’d come in after the man I’d come to town to see hadn’t answered his phone.
I’d shown up in town unannounced, so that’s my own fault.
But I know this place is his husband’s, and I’d hoped maybe Harley would be here.
Nope. It’s just me, the bartender, and a couple of women having drinks across the room.
I’ve never visited Harley at home. We’ve been texting for the past six months.
The last time I saw him was at the hospital the day before he was discharged.
I’d visited him three times during his eight-day stay after his stroke.
I never do that with people I meet because I’m the paramedic on the ambulance that responds to the call where they have been injured or are having some kind of medical emergency.
But Harley was different. I’d felt compelled to go check on him in the hospital.
I’d ended up staying and visiting with him for two hours that had just flown by, and when he’d invited me back, I’d gone.
Tonight, when I’d been feeling melancholy, I’d thought of Harley and thought, why not stop by and see how he is? But I hadn’t made plans with him ahead of time. I’d just shown up and then texted to see if he was around. He hasn’t answered.
I’m just feeling restless.
Christmas is coming in four days, and I won't be with my family this year, as I was just home for Thanksgiving.
I don’t mind that, actually. I love my family, but my siblings are all married and having kids.
My mom and dad are so worried about me not doing those things, especially after I stupidly packed up and followed Sierra to Louisiana.
Not being there at the most nostalgic time of the year is a favor to them, honestly.
I’ll let them revel in my three siblings doing things the right way and allowing my dad to play Santa and my mom to craft her butt off.
My perpetual single status can be out of sight, out of mind, hopefully.
My mom won’t hang my stocking, all by itself, at the end of the row of stockings, and sadly stroke it, wondering if I’m going to die alone.
My dad won’t wrap my gifts, including the extra ones they buy in an attempt to fill the supposed holes in my heart and life with material things, while being sad that he’s not wrapping stuff for my kids.
My brothers won’t ply me with liquor in an attempt to keep me tipsy and, hopefully, not sad. Because Jesus, my middle brother, is terrible with feelings.
My aunt won’t bake extra everything, so I know someone is thinking of me.
And, most of all, my sister won’t be tempted to bring single women she knows over in an attempt to set me up.
Though that one wouldn’t be all bad…
No. I don’t want that. I do not want a holiday fling back home, where I’ll have to leave her on December twenty-seventh when I return to Louisiana and my life here.
A fling back home that will make my mom start hoping that I’ll move back.
I’m staying in Louisiana. Even without Sierra. It’s been the fresh start I needed in every way, except romantic.
I’m no longer gambling. I’m not in debt. I’m not keeping secrets from my family. I’ve got my dream job. I’ve got friends who don’t come from my messy past.
And dammit, I can start over with a woman who doesn’t know that messy past. Or at least, who won’t judge me for it because she knows me now.
Sierra was never able to get over the stupid mistakes I made, and fair enough.
She was evidently looking for an older, more mature, more stable type.
The cardiothoracic surgeon who already has two daughters in middle school and salt-and-pepper hair at his temples, type.
Apparently. Because that’s what she got.
Not the younger, trying-to-get-his-shit-together, twenty-four-hour-shifts-at-a-time firefighter type.
Because that’s who followed her here, who turned his whole life around for her, and who laid it all on the line the day after he found out she was engaged in a massive grand gesture in the hospital emergency room.