Page 41 of Troubles

I peel my eyes open and try to take stock. Not in my flat. I rub my hands down my face and reach deep for the memories. I know for sure I had not planned on waking here alone.

Dinner.

My phone pings somewhere nearby, and the sound rips through my head. I look around again and see it on the floor. It’s halfway across the room, past the jumbled pile of my clothes. Christ, what the fuck happened last night?

Lisbeth.

Maybe the whole fucking thing was nothing but a bad dream. Maybe she’s decided. Maybe she’s ready.

My stomach churns as I push myself up and sit at the edge of the bed. With elbows on my knees, I take deep breaths until the waves calm. I stumble to the loo, not sure whether to pray that I purge this shit or not. I splash cold water on my face and then rest my hand on the back of my neck.

I rifle through my clothes and pull on my briefs and trousers. Slow steady movements, nothing jerky to upset my tenuous hold on the situation. Hope crinkles at the edge of my heart as I grab my phone. The screen is cracked and there are glass chips on the carpet from an empty whiskey bottle. No wonder I feel like shite.

Nausea and disappointment roll through me. My plan was to wake wrapped up in the woman I love. To finally have some true privacy with her. To celebrate taking our relationship to the next level, moving in together. To touch and talk and kiss and love her.

I toss my fucked phone on the mattress and pull on the rest of my clothes. Throw the evidence of my misery away. I probably should have left the bottle on the floor with the shards of glass, but I can’t. Instead, I clean up as best as I can and leave.

The air in the flat is enough to drive me back out into the world. I couldn’t stay at the hotel—that was to be with Lisbeth.

I sure as shit can’t stand to be here. It’s just another reminder of how much I want to move out.

I shed my clothes and step into the shower. I let the scorching spray rain down on me for as long as I can stand it. Sadly, it does little to improve my mood.

The hell with this. I can’t hang around here. I need to move, do something. Be somewhere else. It’s not yet ten o’clock, but I throw on shorts and a t-shirt.

As I pound on Finn’s door, I run a hand through my hair. “Hey, you awake?” I hear the faint sound of bed springs creaking and moans coming through the door. Jesus. “Right. I’ve got the bar today. You—you just carry on.” The words fade as they leave my mouth. That should be me. My reality this morning. Instead, my heart hurts, my head is pounding and I’m heading to work.

It’s ridiculous that I’m actually glad the pub is a fucking mess from last night. I lock the door behind me and flip on lights, just illuminating the bar. Only the bare minimum I need to see. I’ve spent far too much time in my head this morning and need a fucking escape.

As the mop bucket fills, I put all the chairs up on tables, stools up on the bar and crank the music. And pop some ibuprofen and pour myself a pint.

To say I’m focused on the shit task of scrubbing the floor would be an understatement. Scrubbing, mopping, changing out the water. I’m washing up the last section when I see the back door open.

“I thought Finn was openin’ today. Didn’t you switch wit’ him? Take today off?” Francie yells above the music as he takes in the state of the pub. “Jesus, would you turn that down, I can’t think wit’ it goin’ like that.”

“That’s the point.” I reach past the taps and lower the volume to a workable level. I finish up the floor, ignoring the rest of the shite he’s asked me. “You wanna start putting the chairs down and I’ll get the tables wiped before you unlock the door.” I heft the bucket and head out back to dump it. I decide to wash the bucket and thoroughly clean the mop while I’m out there. Shite should be done right the first time.

“Yeah, it should but why don’t you leave the poor mop alone and come inside. ’Ave a pint wit’ me and tell me what’s troubling you.” Again, I’m so far in my head, I never heard Francie come out. “Come on, Aidan.”

He nods to a barstool and slides me a fresh pint. “You took Lissy out last night, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He stands there, like the barman he is, folded arms resting on his belly, hip against the bar. He’s had years of practice and will wait me out. I plant my elbows on the bar and scrub my hands over my face. Somehow with the music at a normal volume, my head hurts worse than it did before.

I take a long pull from my glass and heave the breath I’m holding out my nose. The longer I keep my mouth shut, the better. I don’t want to deal with what I’m feeling, let alone talk about.

“Out wit’ it, lad. Let’s go. Did you fuck things up wit’ my Lissy? I told you, you weren’t to get involved if you were just goin’ to mess around.” He’s all arsed up now.

“I didn’t fuck it up. I don’t think.”

It’s under his breath, but I catch something that sounds a lot like and that’s the fucking problem.

“I can’t do this. I’m a cliché, sitting here.” I shove my barstool back catching it just before it hits the floor. “You sit, old man, and I’ll prep the bar.”

I grab a clean rag and attack the bar top. I scrub at nothing, moving just for the sake of moving. Tension is thick in the air. Francie watching me, waiting for me to stop muttering to myself. He moves ’round the bar meticulously straightening all the barstools

“Son, you’re going to wipe the varnish off the thing.” His voice is much softer this go around and that’s what does me in. Bracing myself against the bar, arms wide, I drop my head and suck in a big breath.

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