Page 6 of With This Lie

“Hello,” an unfamiliar voice says, snapping me back to the present.

“Oh, hello. Sorry about that, what can I get for you?” I respond while pulling glasses up from the bottom rack. It isn’t like me to greet a new customer without making eye contact, but I need a moment to collect myself.

“I’ll just have a Heineken,” he says.

“Coming right up!” I say, turning my back to him to get into the cooler. I pull the bottle opener from my back pocket and pop the top off. I turn to sit the beer in front of him and stop in my tracks. Whoever he is, wherever he came from, he is next-level gorgeous. There’s a lot of things I can play cool about, but a beautiful man isn’t one of them. I have weaknesses and I am staring one of them in the face.

He smiles a very relaxed, natural-looking smile. “Hello again.”

I gulp, slowly sitting his beer down onto the cardboard coaster in front of him. All I can hear in my head are the lyrics to “House of Cards” by Radiohead.

“Oh, hello there.” I give my best fake bartender smile. The same crappy smile I give a hundred patrons a night.

“That’s not your real smile, is it?” he asks, raising his eyebrow.

Wow, calling me on my bullshit early.

He must notice my surprise because he chuckles. “I’m only kidding,” he says.

I return a nervous laugh. “Can I get you anything else?”

His eyes search around the bar. “I’m actually just waiting for my brother. I don’t see him here yet so I’m good for now, thank you,” he replies.

I nod at him and shuffle back a couple of steps.

Someone yells, “Excuse me, miss?”

And I redirect my attention to assist them and some of the other patrons, all the while stealing glances of him from the corner of my eye.

My favorite game to play with myself to pass the time is to create back stories for the people I run into. He has a ring on—of course—but he doesn’t really look like your average married man. He definitely doesn’t have the suburban dad bod or terrible husband haircut. His dark brown hair and beard look soft and touchable. A very touchable beard. His eyes are a beautiful blue-green. He seems taller despite being in a seated position. And lean, like a swimmer. Swimmers’ bodies are delightful. I try guessing his name in my head. Garrett? No. Andrew? Nope. Daniel? Nu-uh. I mindlessly wipe the counters in front of me.

This is exactly the sort of man my mother would tell me to run from, to keep a distance from. Men like that—the beautiful, unobtainable type—are exactly the type to hurt you. A beautiful man can break you down before you ever know what is happening. One moment you’re Kelly Clarkson’s “Miss Independent” and the next you’re Pink’s “Just Like A Pill”. It spirals out of control so fast, you don’t even recognize yourself and you’re lovesick all over the sidewalk and your favorite pair of boots. No way, man. Not me.

I glance over at the exact moment he tries to wave me over and I make my way to him. I swallow big again. “What can I get ya?” I ask.

“Well, turns out my brother is standing me up, which is not a big surprise, so I’ll have a shot of Jameson and the check, please.” He forces a small polite smile past his visible disappointment. His eyes are sad.

It makes me sad for him. “Well, I’m sure he’s got a good reason, right? I’m sure you’ll catch up soon.”

“Thanks, but probably not. We haven’t seen each other in eight years, even though we live in the same city,” he says.

“Oh, that sucks.” I grab a shot glass from the rack and turn it over in front of him. I spin around, grab the Jameson from the shelf, tip the bottle up, and fill the shot glass all the way to the brim.

“Whoa now,” he says, chuckling.

“Seems like you could use it,” I say, smiling.

He nods, taking the shot in his hand. Some spills down his thumb as he hoists it in the air and knocks it back. He doesn’t even flinch.

That’s hot.I have a thing for men who can handle the hard stuff.

He pulls his thumb up to his lips and licks the droplets from the back of it.

Christ on a cracker. I clear my throat.

“Thanks,” he says.

He is staring at me now, making entirely too much eye contact for my comfort. For anyone’s comfort really. No one does that anymore. No one just looks at someone, looks through them.

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