Page 7 of The Problem with Perfect

When I walk into The Mitch later that evening, I pause in the entry like I do nearly every time, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. This place is the quintessential dive bar, complete with a dart board, a pool table, a juke box, and a hazy quality that makes it seem like people still smoke inside even though that’s been banned since before I was legal to drink.

Once I can see, it only takes a second to scan the room and realize Andy hasn’t arrived yet. I cross to the bar and slip onto a stool, ordering a whiskey neat from the bartender—Emily, I think?—a cute blonde who’s wearing the employee shirt that saysMitch Bitch.

She gives me a look I know well—one that tells me I can have more than just the drink if I ask—before striding down to the other end of the bar to attend to other patrons. If Emily were onthisside of the counter, I’d be taking her up on whatever that look might promise, but I’ve learned well enough not to mess around with locals.

What’s that old saying? Don’t dip your pen in company ink? It’s like that, but with the town, which is why I don’t flirt or fuck with people who live here. Not anymore. The last thing I need is some sort of drama when I ultimately don’t want anything more than a good time.

Iusedto hook up with fellow townies, but my sister begged me for years to stop sleeping with people we know, and after one particularly bad experience involving a woman who wasn’t as single as I assumed, I decided she was right. Who needs a black eye anyway? Besides, it’s much cleaner to sleep with people who aren’t planning on sticking around.

My phone vibrates on the bar, and when I glance down, I see Andy’s text on the screen.

Andy: Sorry, man. Got tied up. Be there in 20.

Twenty minutes isn’t that long, but it’s just another chunk of time for me to wish I were back at my own house, where the whiskey is significantly cheaper. I pick up my Woodford and take a sip, enjoying the burn as it coats my mouth and runs down my throat, before staring blankly into the glass.

Has it really been ten years?

I seem to ask myself that question every year on the anniversary of their death. Each one seems almost unbelievable, but ten is a milestone. A decade. The idea that it’s beena decadesince I’ve talked to them is just…

A laugh catches my attention, pulling me from my memories and the emotional place I almost slipped into. I glance over to where Emily is talking with Bellamy Mitchell, the latter tying an apron around her hips, a wild smile on her face. When Bellamy’s eyes catch mine, her laugh fades, replaced almost immediately by a look of embarrassment. She says something else to the blonde and then heads my way.

Another perk of drinking at home alone—I don’t have to worry about bumping into people I don’t feel like talking to in the exact moment I don’t want to talk to them. It’s not that I have anything against Bellamy, exactly, but the last thing I want is for her to rehash whatever that was last night, aka the weirdest hour I’ve ever experienced.

“Hey, Rusty,” she says, planting her hands wide on the bar top and leaning forward. “About last night…”

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, because I don’t want to talk about it.

“But I’ve been feeling awkward about it, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

“You already apologized. No need to do it again.”

Her nose scrunches up. “I get that, but I still feel like an absolute ass. I mean…” She sighs. “You were going through something, and I was—”

“Bellamy.”

Her warm chestnut eyes, which always seem far too trusting for her own good, blink a few times at my interruption.

“It’s fine.”

She nibbles on her lip and, begrudgingly, bobs her head a few times.

“Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well…thank you again. For the ride home and the…consolation.”

At that, she gives me a real smile, and I fight the urge to do the same as she begins to giggle. Her mouth opens slightly, like she’s about to say something else, but a look of…I don’t know, something uncomfortable overtakes her for just a moment. Then a big fake smile stretches wide on her face.

“Hey there, Bells.”

Connor Pruitt walks up to the bar and hops onto the stool next to mine.

“Hi Connor. What can I get you?”

My eyes scan over Bellamy, taking in the stiff way she’s standing, her hands twisting together in front of her even as she pretends she’s happy to see him.

“Just a Coors would be good.”

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