Fuck that disco ball shooting perky, refracted light around the room.How is a guy supposed to brood in a place with a disco ball?
And fuck the woman across the room. The one wearing a low-cut, black tank top. She dances like one of those inflatable tube men you see at car sale lots. It doesn’t help she keeps yellingshotsevery time some pathetic moron buys her a drink. Pretty sure she’s up to three now. Not that I’m counting.
Also. Fuck September 1st while we're at it. It used to be my favorite day of the year. Now it’s my least.
I glance at my watch. I hope there's a special place in hell for people who force you to socialize and then show up late. Actually, I hope there isn’t because then I’d be stuck in hell for eternity with my goddamn brother.
I should charge him my hourly rate. I could have billed enough hours to buy Vivian that pair of soccer cleats she's been asking for.
This bar scene isn’t for me. I much prefer to brood alone.
A hand slaps my shoulder. When I turn my head, my vision is assaulted by a tacky, bright red Hawaiian shirt. I have to squint to keep the goddamn offense out of my eyes.
Tyler’s eyes crinkle in amusement. They’re a hazy blue. Hazy, just like his commitment to women. The goddamn bastard. How does he look good even in that fucking shirt?
“You’re late, asshole.”
“Aww, how precious. You missed me.” I roll my eyes at him.
"Hideous shirt,” I grumble as he takes a seat next to me.
“It’s Hawaiian shirt night.”
“That explains why this place looks like Jimmy Buffet’s wardrobe exploded in here.”
“Glad you’re a fan, ‘cause I have one for you." Tyler pulls an exact replica of his shirt from what appears to be thin air. He tosses it against my chest. I feel a little bit of brotherly aggression behind the playful gesture. He leans back in his barstool and rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I had to guess on your size now that you're a walking slab of human muscle,” he says. “You look good, by the way.” He gestures to my frame.
Muscles. Apparently, that’s what happens when you put down the bottle and pick up the barbell. Which is what I did several years ago.
"Not wearing it," I say, dropping the shirt unceremoniously onto the counter between us.
"Alright then.” Tyler snorts. “Still size extra grump-ass." His bright blue eyes are brimming with cocky mischief and it kind of makes me want to punch something. Something like his face.
Tyler waves down the bartender and slings an arm casually across the bar top as he faces me. "You holding up alright?" he asks.
"Yep," I answer quickly, not bothering to look in his direction.
"You sure?" he prods, uncertain.
"Yep," I say again.
“Good talk."
We’re both ignoring the elephant in the room. That today is my late wife, Laurel’s, birthday. Tyler coaxed me out tonight because he’s worried about me. I’m worried about me, too, to be honest. Because it doesn’t seem right to still be pining for someone who’s been gone for so long. I thought time would heal the pain. But it’s been nine fucking years.
I grip the glass in front of me. Lemonade and iced-tea. I don’t drink anymore. After Laurel died, I did far too much drinking. I drank to go numb. Honestly, I drank for the fucking hangovers. It was a small comfort. To have pain in my body instead of just my heart. But that’s all in the past.
In fact, this bar is where I had my last real drink. The bartender, our mutual friend, Dan, called Tyler to come pick me up when I somehow managed to become too drunk to stand, but sober enough to throw a punch. That was the last straw. For me, anyway.
“I’m surprised you actually came out. Jenna bet me a week of coffee that you’d bail. I’m about to be the most caffeinated man on the planet.” I roll my eyes. Great. My antisocial tendencies are now the subject of wagers between my siblings.
“You unleashed Ma on me. She showed up on my doorstep with dinner for the girls and practically ran me out of the fucking house. I’m lucky she gave me five minutes to change.”
“Yeah, well, you need to blow off some steam.Andget laid.”
“Ma said the exact same thing.” I eye him suspiciously. My lack of a love life has, apparently, become a family affair.
“Shots!” A grating voice cuts across the room. The girl in the black tank top is at it again. She’s throwing her head back and laughing like a goddamn hyena. That would be four. Not that I’m counting.