Page 15 of Sexting the Cowboy
“Debatable.”
The whiskey arrives in heavy-bottomed glasses that make a satisfying little clunk when the bartender sets them down. Condensation blooms immediately. I wrap my fingers around mine and feel the cold bleed into my palms. First sip, and the burn is a smooth, woody wash that unclenches something at the base of my skull. My whole body exhales.
“Rough day?” Jaden asks.
“Just a day,” I say, then shake my head. “No. That’s a lie. It was rough. I saw Reno.”
His brows flick. “Yeah. I didn’t ask anything earlier, because I figured you’d want to have liquor in your hand first. How’d that go?”
“Like a paper cut. Small, stupid, still stings.”
“You okay?”
“Ask me after the fries.”
The basket lands like a parade float, mounded and steaming, a dusting of salt glittering under the bar lights. I dip one in the orange sauce. It tastes like ketchup that took a sabbatical and came home with secrets. We devour the first layer without speaking. Grease soothes.
I let the whiskey work and let the fry salt hit the dried-out places in my brain that forgot what satisfaction feels like. My tight, precise posture melts by degrees until I’m slouched with the kind of indifference I only allow when I’m too tired to defend theramparts. Noise becomes a cushion instead of an assault. The TV above the bar plays a slow-motion replay of a hockey fight, and for a moment, I’m seven again, watching my dad stand too close to the glass at a Thunderbirds game and shouting like his voice could change physics.
Two men in snap shirts and too-clean boots drift past our booth and hover. Their smiles are the kind that think they’re charming because they’ve worked on other people. The shorter one has a belt buckle I can see my annoyed reflection in.
“Evenin’,” he says, leaning a forearm on the lip of our half wall.
“Evening,” I say without looking up.
“Long day?” the taller one asks.
“Long life.”
“You work at the Fest?” Belt Buckle says, eyes flicking to my scrub pants like he’s connecting dots.
“Medical tent.”
“So you’re a nurse.”
“Doctor,” I correct, and I don’t try to soften it.
“Pretty for a doctor,” the taller one says, like it’s a compliment I’ll pay back with a giggle.
Jaden’s smile goes from polite to protectiveness in a blink. “We’re having a conversation,” he says, not unkindly. “Appreciate the neighborliness.”
“We’re just being friendly,” Belt Buckle says, both palms up like he’s a mime dropping any threatening objects he doesn’t own.
“Friendly’s fine,” I say. “Hovering is drafty.”
They laugh. They don’t move. The taller one points at my glass. “What’re you drinking? We’ll get your next round.”
“I can buy my own whiskey.”
They grin at each other like I’ve challenged them to a game and then finally amble away when the bartender shouts an order number that might be theirs.
Jaden exhales. “You good?”
“Thriving.”
He shakes his head, amused. “What would you have done if they didn’t leave?”
“Ordered Iowa number two and a restraining order.”
