Page 41 of The Single Dad Grump Next Door

“I’m not cooped up,” I reply, glancing toward the living room where Wren is sprawled on the rug, absorbed in a jigsaw puzzle that Karina, Andy’s wife, gave her when we crossed paths on the patio earlier this morning.

We’re all just becoming one big happy family, practically overnight.

I haven’t seen Alina around, though. Not since she ducked out of dinner early, muttering something about how she was feeling a headache coming on.

Not that I’m wondering where she is. Not that I care.

Andy grins at me, leaning in conspiratorially. “Karina can watch Wren while we’re out, if you’re cool with it. She’s great with kids. The Siren and Sword has great beer and even better fried pickles. You’re missing out, man. Also, I can introduce you to my friend Matt—he plays the guitar! Actually, now that I think about it, there are probably tons of famous musicians in town that you could befriend… and we’d find them all at the local watering hole!”

I hesitate, trying to process his cheerful rambling. It’s been a long day, doting on Wren to make sure she’s perfectly hydratedand then slipping away when I can to work on my newest composition. The thought of dealing with the noise and crowd of a bar doesn’t exactly appeal to me.

Unfortunately, I think Andy’s relentless optimism is wearing me down. It’s the same thing that Wren does to me. I can’t say no to the hopeful.

“Fine,” I say with a sigh. “One drink.”

“Heck yeah!” he cheers. “You won’t regret it, dude.”

The Siren & Sword, a traditional pub-restaurant in the style of a cozy dive you might wander into on the cobbled streets of Dublin or Edinburgh or somewhere similarly ancient and proud, is packed when we arrive at about half past eight. The din of conversation and laughter spills out into the street, a cacophony at odds with the classic rock music playing from the sound system.

Andy strides in like he owns the place, his booming voice cutting through the chatter as he greets the bartender and half the patrons like old friends.

I hang back, my hands in my pockets, already regretting my decision to come. This isn’t my scene. Even when I was younger, freshly turned twenty-one and allowed to enter bars, I avoided places like this. I don’t do well in large crowds. It’s not that they make me anxious, but rather that I just don’t know what to do. How do people balance so many conversations at once? How do they switch from one to the next so seamlessly, so naturally?

At least that’s one thing Alina and I had in common. She didn’t seem to be a big fan of large party atmospheres in college, either. I always assumed it was because of her general aura of snobbery—she merely thought she was too good for that kind of socializing.

Now, I’m sure I judged her too harshly.

“Packers fans? Alright! Drinks are on me!” Andy announces to a nearby table, and a cheer goes up from the group of peoplegathered around it, followed by playful jeers from others next to them.

Within minutes, he’s in the thick of it, swapping stories and cracking jokes like he’s known these people for years instead of mere minutes. I watch in awe as he sweet-talks our fellow vacationers, then laughs with the bartender, and then waves cheerfully at a red-haired waitress when she greets him.

This guy knowseveryone, and he clearly doesn’t need me to have a good time. Just like that, I’m wondering why he even bothered to invite me. Did he feel bad for me? Is that what this is? A pity invitation? An offering to pay me back for having them over for dinner?

Or does he feel bad for me in a more general sense? Could Alina have shared with them all the things that I revealed to her? Do they now all know how much of a loser I am?

Or am I completely overthinking this entire circumstance?

My wife was always better at these things. Her name tickles the edges of my memories, but I carefully fold it away in the quiet, restless shadows where it belongs. I loved her, but it was a simple love. An easy love. No fireworks, no overwhelming passion.

Part of me is worried she wasted her last precious years being married to me when she might’ve been able to find her soulmate. There’s no point in dwelling on that, though. I’ll never know. She’s gone and I’m still here, and it would probably be a huge dishonor to her memory to mope around this bar when I know for a fact that she’d be working the room just like my neighbor currently is.

I nurse the beer Andy hands me as I stand at the edge of the chaos. I wonder how long I have to hover on the periphery before I’ll get a chance to slip away into the night.

As Andy’s laughter echoes across the room, I retreat toward the bar, weaving through the crowd until I find a quieter corner.

I’m not the only one in search of some relative solitude, though.

Alina is here.

She keeps appearing like this. Out of nowhere, just when I’ve resolved to avoid thinking about her, she pops up like a ghost sent to haunt me.

She’s sitting alone at the bar, an untouched cocktail in front of her and an air of quiet detachment about her. She doesn’t notice me at first, her gaze fixed on the swirling ice in her glass.

For a moment, I consider turning around and walking away. But something about the way her shoulders are hunched, like she’s carrying the weight of the world upon them, stops me.

“Fancy seeing you here,” I say before I realize how stupid that sounds.

Idiot.

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