Page 69 of A Love Letter to Whiskey
I was right in the middle of a particularly stressful Thursday afternoon when Jamie texted me that he needed to talk. I was already busy, stretched thin and on the verge of proving that I could be a permanent employee at Rye, and the last thing I needed was the stomach somersault that came with that text from him. The attention I’d garnered as an intern was unprecedented, and I could feel success nipping at the tips of my fingers, waiting for me to latch on. Still, that could all be gone if I let my emotions get the best of me.
I debated type-screaming at Jamie, telling him I didn’t have time for his shit, but the truth was I was scared of what he had to say. In a way, I knew what was coming, at least I could guess — and I guess that’s why I wanted to be angry. Being mad would be easier than being breakable.
In the end, I just responded with an “okay” and a promise to call him as soon as I got home that evening. I had just thrown my phone on my desk screen-side down with a long sigh when River propped his forearm on my cube.
“You need a break.”
“No,” I corrected him as I logged back into my computer. “I need more hours in the day, actually.”
He chuckled. “Come on. Food. Now.”
“I’m fine.”
“Did you forget who your boss is?” I finally looked up at him and he cocked one beautiful blonde eyebrow with a stupid smirk on his face.
“Way to pull the I pay you card.”
“Well, I’ll pay for your lunch. How’s that?” He snagged my umbrella from where I’d propped it at the corner of my desk and handed it to me. “You’ve been here for over two months and you still haven’t eaten a Primanti Brothers’ sandwich. We’re fixing that today.”
I let myself smile, realizing at the mention of food just how hungry I actually was. Maybe I did need a break, even if it was only for an hour. I took the umbrella from his hand and grabbed my purse off the cube hook. “Well how can I say no to sandwiches piled high with french fries and coleslaw?”
“You can’t. Another trump card.”
He smiled, motioning with his hand for me to take the lead. I looked back at my phone on the desk but decided to leave it behind. If I was taking a break, I was taking it from everything — and everyone.
The walk through Market Square to Primati Brothers was wet, and surprisingly chilly for the time of year. I was used to sweltering Augusts, but it was in the sixties and drizzling all day that day. River and I walked side by side with our umbrellas popped open, talking about the event coming up and other small conversation bits. I loved walking through downtown. In fact, I loved everything about Pittsburgh. I was surprised by how much it had evolved to feel like home.
“Okay, now once you walk through this door, you’re on a break. I’m serious. No work talk,” River said when we reached the entrance. He held his hand on the door until I agreed, and then he opened it and the smell of heaven invaded.
It was a small place, limited seating mostly at the bar that surrounded where all the cooking was happening. River and I slid up onto two barstools at the far end and a smiling waiter dropped off our menus before turning back to the flat-top to flip an egg.
“What are you guys having to drink?” he yelled over his shoulder. He had long, dark hair, pulled back into a low bun and tattoos lining his arms. The entire crew behind the bar was shouting orders to each other and cracking jokes in-between. I already felt at ease.
I opened my mouth to reply, ready to ask for a water, when River answered for us, ordering two local beers.
“I know I’m at the end of my internship, but don’t tell my boss I’m drinking on the job, okay?” I teased.
“Something tells me he won’t mind. So, what are you going to order?”
I looked over the menu, scanning the options. “The Pitts-burger. Number two bestseller.” My eyes read over the other options, and I frowned when I couldn’t find any other menu items with callouts like that. “What’s the number one bestseller?”
River and the waiter exchanged grins as our beers were placed in front of us, the froth spilling over the side a bit. “You’re looking at it, sweetheart.”
I was confused, but when River’s eyes crinkled at the edges and fell to the beer I’d just wrapped a hand around, it clicked into place. “Ohhh,” I mused, holding mine up. “Beer. Number one bestseller. I get it.”
“Faster than most, actually,” the waiter agreed. “So, what will it be?”
