Page 8 of Click of Fate

Like my mom.

She and my dad split when I was fifteen. While the divorce wasn’t all that surprising, it was long, drawn-out, and definitely messy. They fought over everything. My mom claims my father was the love of her life, yet they rarely got along in the last years of their marriage. If two people once loved each other enough to get married and have children, why did they turn their split into a shit show?

Once they were officially done with each other, instead of my mom finding herself, picking herself back up, and putting the pieces together, she stayed broken. She was depressed, she never dated, and she hated my father with a passion. It was emotional whiplash.

She would demand updates after we spent time with our father. She would get extremely angry that he was dating, and then she would spend days crying.

It took a good five years for her to resemble a small piece of the woman I remember to be growing up. I love my mom very much, but our relationship is difficult. She never remarried. She claims she will never love another, but honestly, I just want her to get over it. Move on. But she’s my mom, so I bite my tongue.

My father, on the other hand…

Well, he’s a real gem. He’s on marriage number five. After the first two—after his divorce from mom—I told him I wasn’t interested in being in his weddings any more. He thought I was crazy. “This one will stick, Stella. She’s the love of my life.”

Right.

I haven’t even met wife number five. They eloped in Mexico three months ago.

So while I’ve had my eyes wide open to the fact that falling in love is just a recipe for heartbreak and marriage means nothing, my sister has always had stars in her eyes.

She never married Ryan. I knew the moment I met him that he was no good for her. But she was in love. It took six years of him coming and going as he pleased—and finally ghosting her for good—before she finally broke through his mind games. But I know her; she’s going to fall in love again, and I fear it will end in more heartache. I suppose it’s my job as her big sister to be there for her when the inevitable happens.

Because love never sticks around.

A few hours later, as I step through the door of The Trading Post, the low hum of conversation wraps around me in a warm and easy way. 90s rock plays throughout the space—notmake-your-ears-bleedloud, but enough to feel it. The place has that well-loved, broken-in charm that tells me it’s been standing here long before craft cocktails and overpriced speakeasies took over the city.

Scanning the space as I move toward the bar, I start cataloging details and trying to decide if this place will become my new favorite. In every place I’ve ever lived, I always find “my spot.” My go-to place where I can unwind. Currently, that place is Sweet Wave, but since it’s closed at night, this place is moving its way up my list.

The brick walls are lined with old black-and-white photos, some of them framed, some just tacked up haphazardly like a growing collage of memories. The floors creak faintly under my feet, but it’s the good kind of creak—not falling apart, just worn smooth by years of steady foot traffic.

The bar itself is heavy wood. A row of battered leather barstools sits empty at one end, while most of the others are occupied by a mix of after-work drinkers I assume are the local regulars; they’re dressed nicely, but seem completely at ease at the bar, as if they’ve sat there a hundred times already.

A chalkboard menu hangs behind the bar, listing the night’s food feature in bold, uneven handwriting—MEATBALL THURSDAY: House-made meatballs braised in IPA, served seven ways.

Smirking, I wonder how many ways you can actually be served a meatball.

A faint hint of smoke and spice lingers in the air, not from cigarettes but from something wafting off the kitchen grill. The scent mixes with the familiar smell of hops, aged whiskey, and whatever cleaner they use on the tables—a scent that somehow manages to be comforting rather than harsh.

The bartender, a broad-shouldered, easygoing man around my age, nods in my direction as I slide onto a stool.

“What can I get you?” His smile is easy, and I bet he gets a lot of phone numbers when he flashes it.

I glance up at the menu and decide to keep up the spontaneity. “Whatever IPA is most popular.” He nods and gets to work.

"First time here?" a deep voice asks from beside me. I startle—I didn’t notice that I sat down only one stool away from a tall, dark-haired man.

I lift an eyebrow. “That obvious?”

He smirks. "You looked like you were cataloging the whole place before you even picked a seat."

I huff out a quiet laugh. He’s not wrong, but obviously I didn’t clock tall, dark, and handsome here.

"Just getting the lay of the land," I tell him, tapping a finger against the worn wood of the bar—right as the bartender sets acoaster in front of me and places the freshly pulled glass on top of it.

"The Postman’s Pint," the bartender says as he glances at the man beside me.

I take a sip. Hoppy, smooth, and just bitter enough. I can’t help nodding in approval.

Another point for The Trading Post.

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