Page 24 of Bidding War

Being unemployed does not suit me. I like having a purpose. A direction. I didn’t like using my energy to make the rich stay richer, so this is an opportunity to figure out something else.

A new path.

I have to think of something.

If I’m not busy, I start thinking. Thinking is bad for me. Thinking leads to remembering, and remembering leads to things I don’t want to recall. My family, for one. The camp incident, for another. Getting kidnapped—nope. I'm not going to think about any of that.

Work. Career. Paycheck. The respect and admiration of my peers. Things I can manage. But how do I keep my head above water when I can’t get back into my field? Just thinking about getting back into tax law, it feels like there’s a weight on my chest.

If I’m not interested in making things better for rich people, then what the hell am I doing in tax law? It’s not as simple as that, and I know it. But it feels like it is, and right now, I want things to feel better than that. Maybe I can try something else for a while, like vodka.

Okay, vodka won’t pay the bills, but it’ll sure make me feel better in the short term. Short-term is all I can focus on. Everything else is too painful, and then, there’s the Anderson of it all. Ugh. My career and my love life are fragmented and raw. An open wound on my psyche. I just need a fucking break. I can’t take another day of beating myself up over everything.

Instead, I slip on some cold weather running gear, grab my wallet and keys, and head out the door. If I can’t think of anything else to do, at the very least, I can go for a run. It doesn’t cost me anything if I don’t stop anywhere, and it clears my head better than most things.

Running through my neighborhood is always great for stress relief. I have fairly low rent compared to the rest of my area, but it’s still almost three grand a month. The neighborhood has improved over the years, but some of the older businesses remain strong in the face of gentrification, which gives the area a quirky but old Boston feel to it. I love it.

I really hope I don’t have to move. Yet.

My footfalls are steady though while I wind between commuters. I’ve reached a good pace with my runs now that I have plenty of time to practice. It’s a net positive so far—running helps with all the ice cream and vodka calories. I don’t even get shin splints anymore. But that might have something to do with the lack of heeled shoes in my life lately.

On my run, I buzz past my old bar. O’Mulligan’s was home to my misspent youth, or so I like to pretend. The truth is, I worked there through college, and I loved it. Only ten years older than me, the boss, Kelsey O’Mulligan, was the third-generation owner of the place, and he pretended to be a bad influence on his bartenders while simultaneously working harder than any of us. His father, Liam, had died of a heart attack right before I came on board, so Kelsey inherited the place pretty young.

To my surprise, Kelsey is behind the bar right now. Screw the run. I’m going to say hi.

I pop in, and the familiar bell jingle overhead makes me feel like I’ve come home. Kelsey’s head automatically pops up—it’s early for a customer to be in, so he was just rolling silverware. He brightens in an instant. “Well, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes! Get over here!” He dashes around the bar for a hug.

“I’m all sweaty?—"

“And I’m not?” he teases. He gives the best hugs. Kelsey is six feet tall, but he feels much taller. Has one of those larger-than-life personalities that lights up a room. Bright ginger hair with a big, bushy beard and sparkling, sweet blue eyes, he’s the pale Viking type who looks like he’d be more at home raiding a village or chopping wood than fetching drinks for strangers. He grins. “How the fuck are you, June?”

“Oof, loaded question ... ” When I walk in, the worn copper-topped bar is on my left, with the dining area on the right, and booths line the interior far wall. O’Mulligan’s is on a corner, so it has two glass walls that overlook the sidewalk. It’s a big space and worth a tremendous amount of money, but Kelsey vowed he would never sell. He wants to pass the place on to his kids. “Looks like the place hasn’t changed much.”

“We got new napkins, but that’s about it. Come on in. Let me buy you a drink. Still appletinis?”

I laugh. “I’ve graduated to vodka sodas.”

He winces before rounding the bar again. “Next, you’ll tell me you’re into Fernet Branca.”

“Nope. I’m not there yet.” I pop onto a stool across from him. “How are things with you?”

“Great! Monica’s pregnant again.”

“Congratulations!” I know he’s always wanted a big family. “Number three?”

He laughs and passes me my drink. “Five.”

“Five? Jeez, man, let that woman rest!”

He laughs again. “There was a set of twins in pregnancy two, so only four pregnancies.” He pauses. “For now.”

“How many are you aiming for?”

“Don’t really have a number in mind, but I wouldn’t mind having eight or nine kids.”

Yikes. “That’s a lot, man. I’m glad it makes you happy.”

“What about you? Any little ones running about?”

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