Page 36 of Make It Without You

If there was ever a higher power to ensure that hearts never broke or suffered from loss, then surely us humans would sign up for that.

“My wife left me. Just decided this slower pace of city life wasn’t for her. I know her leaving doesn’t compare to your loss. But I do know what it’s like to have that emptiness inside of you.”

She looks at me through her tears as though she sees me. It’s been years since I’ve had a heart-to-heart with someone that wasn’t my son.

“I’m sorry,” she tells me.

“I’m sorry, too. I’m Adam.” It’s silly, but I hold my hand out to her.

Her hand fits in mine, almost like a missing puzzle piece before giving me a small shake. “Emily. I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but I didn’t really start off with a great first impression.”

I pull my hand back and shake off the tingling from her hand fitting with mine. “I won’t judge or tell anyone. So what brings you here on a Tuesday?”

“I had an open house. And wanted to get a drink with my girlfriends. But they bailed at the last minute.”

Panic ensues as I knew I was forgetting something. I’ll just have to see if Dylan has his teacher's email so I can set up a time to meet.

“So you’re a teacher?” I lean my forearms on the table in front of me. It’s a very slim chance that she’s a teacher at Dylan’s school. This area has at least twenty schools varying from elementary to high school. So the odds are slim that she’s an elementary teacher.

She takes a sip of her drink. “Mm-hmm. It’s my fourth year. The first couple of years were a blur. Not because I was still new, but I was planning my wedding and then my personal life went to shit, I didn’t think teaching wanted me anymore.”

“I really am sorry, Emily.”

“Thank you.” I watch her throat bobble with a hard swallow. “Shouldn’t you get back inside?”

“Yeah. You’re right.” I push my chair back and get up. “It was good to meet you, Emily. Stay out here for as long as you want to.”

She goes to push her chair back as well. “I should get going. It’s been a long day.”

I walk us both toward the door that leads back inside. Looking around the restaurant, I see no new customers haveentered. All signs lead to getting work done and making it home before midnight.

“Can I pay my tab?” Emily asks when we’re at the bar.

Shaking my head I tell her. “It’s on the house.”

“What? I can’t let you do that.” She goes to take cash out of her wallet.

“Emily,” I start and place my hand on her forearm. “I insist. Plus it’s my bar so what I say goes.”

A rosy hue covers her cheeks and it has me wondering if it was from her drink she was slowly sipping on or the brief physical contact. The rosy hue gives her a look of innocence that sucks me in. She looks too young for me. And I have Dylan to care for. Who even knows if we’ll ever cross paths again.

“Well, thank you.”

I walk around the bar to the register, cancel her tab and hand her back her credit card.

We both linger at the bar. I’m not sure how to depart after spending the last thirty minutes talking with each other.

“You can feel your grief and your pain, for as long as you need to. There is no set timetable for when you need to move on.” The feeling that no one’s ever told her that grief doesn’t have an expiration date is evident in the tears that manage to pool in her eyes.

Her breath stutters before she looks me in the eye. “Thank you, Adam.”

“You’re welcome.”

With a final breath and a short wave, Emily walks out the door. I didn’t know what to expect tonight when she walked through the door, but it wasn't a soul-baring conversation.

Shaking myself out of the ghost of her person, I tell my bartender I’m headed to my office to get caught up on paperwork. I tackle the orders that need to be placed, payroll, tip outs and drops, and finalize the schedule for the next two weeks.By the time I finish all of my work, it’s pushing ten. I look at the small TV screens that show the front of the house and notice no one in the restaurant or bar.

Quickly calling up front, I let them know to start closing up early so we can get out of here on time.

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