Page 23 of Could Have Been Us
“Weeks. His wife died, and he’s been here daily. He cries a lot, more than anyone I’ve ever seen, and drinks until the tears stop.”
Jesus.
“And how does he normally get home?”
The bartender hands me a sheet of paper. “This is his version of an emergency card. The first number was his brother, who lives in Arizona. He usually called him a cab. Today, he wouldn’t pick up, so I called the only other number listed, which is yours.”
I let out a soft breath and look down at Samuel. He’s a mess, and I’m not sure what the hell to do. Clearly, he needs help.
“Samuel,” I say again, a little more forcefully.
His eyes open, and the smell of alcohol on his breath when he speaks is enough to make me drunk. “Stella. You came.”
“Yes, but what is going on?”
“She’s dead.”
“Yes, Misty is gone, but you’re drunk at five on a Thursday. What are you doing?”
He closes his eyes, resting his head on his fist. “I’m forgetting.”
“Are you?” I say as more rhetorical than anything.
His head wobbles from his fist and falls forward, hitting the hard bar, causing him to snap back upright. “You can have her.”
“Have her?” I ask with a mix of fear.
“Yeah, you can have Kinsley.”
“Samuel, stop. Where is she?”
“At a friend’s for dinner. It doesn’t matter. I can’t do it. I’m done now.”
“Yes, you’re done now. We need to get you cleaned up and sober.”
Samuel shrugs and looks at the bartender. “Mickey, can you get Stella something to clean?”
Mickey’s eyes fill with sympathy. “Do you need help?” he asks.
“Please. I don’t know where to go, but he’s . . .”
He nods. “Are you his daughter?”
“No.” I struggle to explain because the way Mickey is looking at me makes me think he assumes I’m something else. “I’m a friend who was close with his wife.”
“I don’t judge,” Mickey says, a hint of disbelief in his voice.
“I’m not that. I promise, it’s complicated, but his wife was a good friend and . . . whatever. I don’t need to explain myself to you.”
There are bigger issues than some random bartender in Georgia thinking I’m Samuel’s mistress. Things like trying to get a two-hundred-and-fifty-pound man back home without my—his—daughter recognizing me.
Thankfully, it’s only five, so it should be a few hours before she’s home.
“Again, I don’t judge,” Mickey says, trying to help me lift Samuel off the stool.
“Samuel, we need you to help just a little,” I say as I try to pull him up.
He groans and then stumbles a bit.
