Pen Pal

12

That makes two of us.

“I apologize.”

“Accepted,” he says instantly. “What are you doing here?”

The hipster bartender sets my drink in front of me, then walks off to take care of another customer.

I pick up the glass and hold it aloft. “Enjoying some exceptional Scottish whiskey.”

“Without your husband?”

I freeze. Then I remember how to breathe and take a swig of scotch. “How observant you are.”

He gazes at my profile with such unwavering focus, I want to ask him if he’s trying to memorize it so he can pick me out of a police lineup.

Then he slides onto the stool next to me.

Shit.

“No need to make that face. I don’t bite.”

“I’m not making any face. And the biting thing is debatable.”

“You don’t like me very much, do you?”

I exhale heavily, then take another swig of scotch. “This will sound cliché, but it’s not you. It’s me.”

“You’re right. It does sound cliché.”

“If I told you the reason, you’d understand.”

“So tell me the reason.”

He sits facing me with his thighs spread open so one of his legs is on either side of my stool. I’m not trapped—I can turn the other way on the stool and hop off—but somehow it feels as if I am.

I look at him from the corner of my eye. He’s in a black T-shirt and black leather jacket tonight, with jeans to match. Even his boots are black. He looks more like the founder of an underground fight club than ever.

“I…I’m going through kind of a rough time.” “Your house,” he prompts.

I get the feeling he knows my rough time has nothing to do with my house. He just wants me to keep talking. I clear my throat, lick my lips, and debate how much to tell him.

“It’s more personal than that.”

A couple takes the two stools to my left. They’re laughing and talking about the movie they’ve just seen. The man slings an arm casually around the woman’s shoulders, pulling her in for a kiss.

Watching them, I’m shot through the heart with an arrow of anguish.

The kiss. The companionship. The simple joy of being with someone you love, sharing a laugh and a drink.

Thinking you have all the time in the world until out of nowhere that clock stops ticking.

My throat closes. My eyes sting. I stand abruptly and set down my drink. In a strangled voice, I say, “I have to go.”

Without a word, Aidan picks up my glass, takes me gently by the arm, and steers me away toward the booth he was sitting at in the corner.

Struggling not to cry, I let him lead me over to it. I sit first. Instead of sitting across from me, he slides in beside me.

When I stiffen, he says, “You can cry if you need to. Nobody can see you from here.”

He’s right. His bulk blocks out the rest of the bar. It’s just the two of us, facing the wall with a framed copy of Dogs Playing Poker hanging on it.

I slouch down, lean my head back against the booth, and press my fingertips into my eye sockets.

We sit there like that for what seems like a long time, the jukebox playing in the background and the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses in the air. Eventually, I hear the sound of a glass sliding over the tabletop toward me.

“Whiskey will help. For a while, anyway.”

I peek through my fingers. The glass of Jonnie Walker Blue sits on the table in front of me. To my left, Aidan gazes down at me with hooded eyes.

I whisper, “Thank you,” and lift the glass, draining it in one go.

Aidan grunts. I don’t know if it’s in approval or disapproval, and I don’t f*****g care either way.

He catches the bartender’s eye, lifts two fingers, and motions for another round. Hipster boy nods, acknowledging him.

We don’t speak again until our drinks have been delivered and the bartender has gone on his way.

Aidan says in a low voice, “He hurting you? Smacking you around?”

I know who he means by “he,” and I almost laugh at that. Michael was the least aggressive person on the planet. He couldn’t even watch a boxing match because the violence would upset him so much. “No.”

Aidan’s silence seems doubtful.

I know I don’t owe this guy any explanation, but he’s being kind to me, and he’s obviously concerned, so I reluctantly tell him a half truth.

“He…left me.”

“You’re separated?”

That’s one way of putting it. “Yes.”

He takes a long draw of his beer, then swallows and sets the glass down. “Never married, myself.

Can’t see the point to it.”

“You’d see the point if you’d ever been in love.”

“You say that like you think I haven’t.”

“Have you?”

He takes another swig of beer. Licking his lips, he gazes at me.

“No.”

“Then you don’t know what you’re missing.”

His gaze grows penetrating. “Yeah, it looks like all kinds of fun.”

That stings. I break eye contact and sip from the new glass of whiskey. “It’s worth it. No matter how bad it can get, no matter if it all falls apart in the end, it’s worth every minute.”

“Even when you wind up crying in a bar next to a stranger?”

“Yes. And I’m not crying. And technically, you’re not a stranger.”

He huffs out a breath through his nose that might be a laugh. “Okay. I’ll take your word for it.”