9. Youre Shittin Me
Chapter nine
You're Shittin' Me
Paul
I’d lost track of the number of times I’d played Wyatt Jones’s songs after Maggie left. His ballads about love and loss got me through the worst days of my life. And now, here in this bar, he was singing them live. It was just what I needed.
As the set came to an end, I ordered another whiskey, a double, and nursed it, blocking everything out around me. The chorus of his last song stuck with me. Placing both hands on my head, I balanced my whole upper half on my elbows, wondering how I ever let her go.
My heart ached more than before I’d come to Chicago.
“Only a man with nothing left to lose looks like that,” a familiar raspy voice said, heaving himself onto the bar stool next to me. “Davy, this man’s tab is on me.”
Leaning up, I planned to protest, but it was Wyatt Jones himself.
“You don’t have to do that,” I grumbled.
He chuckled, slapping me on the back. “A proud man. I like that. What’s your name?”
“Paul Stratton,” I said, holding out my hand.
With a mighty grip, he shook it and looked me over. “I’d ask what has you so down, but I know that form of malaise. Woman trouble, huh?”
Focusing on my drink, I nodded.
“Want to jaw about it?” he asked.
“Not really,” I said, throwing back the rest of my drink.
Wyatt cringed. “That bad?”
I nodded slowly. The realization of how stupid I’d been, not even keeping in contact with Maggie, hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Only one thing you can do when it’s that bad,” he said, gesturing at the bartender.
When Davy came over with the whole bottle, placing it between Wyatt and me, I glanced up at him. He looked me over, winced, then poured me another double, leaving the bottle behind.
The bartender looked me over, winced, then poured me another double, leaving the bottle behind.
“Here’s to the pain,” Wyatt said, clinking his glass on mine.
Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, as I went to take a drink, in the mirror in front of me I watched Maggie and that jackass sniffer step through the door.
“You’re shittin’ me,” I huffed, slamming the glass back to the bar.
“Friends of yours?” Wyatt asked, shifting his cowboy hat up on his brow.
It wouldn’t do any good to go over there, so I threw back half of the drink. “It’s a long story.”
Topping me off, Wyatt then poured another one for himself. “Good thing I’ve got plenty of time and whiskey.”
Whether it was the sight of Maggie with her boyfriend or the free-flowing liquor I wasn’t used to drinking so quickly, I told my whole story to a man I’d idolized since I was a kid.
Without naming names, I told him about the free spirit that I loved and how I rejected her time and again so she could live her dreams. I told him about the farm I was supposed to take over and how much I wanted her to come back.
Since she never did, I came to find her instead.
While every song said that in letting her go, she’d eventually come back to me, she never had. And now she never would.
“S’pose it’s my own fault for believing the songs,” I slurred, feeling a little dizzy.
Wyatt clamped his hand on my shoulder. “Your story ain’t over yet, son. You were right to give her time to figure herself out, but why didn’t you stay in touch?”
Running my finger along the edge of the glass, I stared into the amber liquid for answers. The truth hit me in the heart.
“Couldn’t figure out what to say without making her feel guilty for leaving or telling her I loved her,” I said, turning to meet his gaze. “So, I didn’t say anything at all.”
Wyatt pulled me in for a side hug. “Damn, son. You’re me thirty years ago. Come on. Let’s get you home. I’ll have my driver take you.”
When I turned, though, I saw Maggie slow dancing with the sniffer. I almost dove at them, but Wyatt stopped me and turned me toward the door.
“Now’s not the time. Keep the faith, son.” Signaling to his bouncers, Wyatt steered me toward a man dressed in all black. “Now git.”
As I moved, the alcohol sloshed in my belly.
I wasn’t sure it’d stay there, but I kept my head down and darted into a town car.
In the backseat, I rested my head back, kicking myself for coming.
The big city was too much for me, smashing every damn dream I’d ever had in one night.
As soon as the expo was over, I’d be glad to head home to lick my wounds.