When the elevator reaches my floor, I don’t step off. It takes me until the door starts to close to realize what I need—a drink. I hit the button for the lobby, and once I’m there, I walk into the restaurant adjacent to the entrance. I’m guessing that the game is over because of the lack of people here and easily find a spot at the bar.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks as he wipes the spot in front of me and sets a coaster down. He rests his hands on the bar, waiting for me to give his order. If I’m drinking, my usual is wine or something fruity, but I feel like this situation calls for a more potent drink.
“Whiskey.”
He looks at me oddly, waits a beat, nods, and then walks away. I’ve never had whiskey in my life, and I suspect he knows this. This guy is probably so good at his job. He knows what people like me drink, and it’s definitely not whiskey.
When he returns, he sets a small glass of amber-colored liquid down in front of me, along with a bottle of beer and a glass of water. I look at him expectantly, and once again, he places his hands on the bar and leans down. “You’ll want the beer chaser and then the water to wash it down. Trust me.”
Trust me. Famous last words, right? I glance around the bar, looking for some distinguished gentlemen or someone similar to who I have pictured in my head, to see how they’re drinking their whiskey. I pick the glass up, swirl and sniff—my stomach rolls at the powerful odor.
“Gah, how do people drink this?”
“It’s an acquired taste.” I look up to find the bartender cleaning the spot next to me. “Many start like you, one sip at a time.”
“I’ve never had one,” I tell him.
“I could tell, which is why I brought you the extras. Whatever made you decide to order that,” he pauses and tilts his head toward my glass, “must’ve really upset you.”
She did. He did. I can’t decide who I’m more upset with. Julius. Elena. Or myself.
“Maybe I wanted to try something new?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, maybe. But I doubt it.” He walks away toward the end of the bar, where he spends time helping the other customers. A few football fans are still lingering, but most of the patrons in here seem to be residents of the building or people who happened to pass by and wanted a place to eat.
I finally convince myself to taste the whiskey. When the glass touches my lips, my phone rings, and Cam’s name lights up my screen. Setting the glass down, I stare at my phone, wondering if I should answer or not. I give in and answer. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. What are you doing?”
I sigh and contemplate telling him the truth. At the end of the day, I consider him my friend. “I’m sitting in a bar, about to try my first whiskey.”
“Why? Someone break your heart?” he asks with a slight laugh.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“Wait, what?”
Another sigh emits. “I started seeing someone, and I just don’t think things are going to work out. My heart isn’t broken, but I’m sad. I really like him.”
“The football player, right?”
“How did—oh never mind, you probably saw it on the internet or whatever. But yes, him. He’s a great guy. He’s just going through a major life change, and I don’t want to be a complication or get too far deep only to have him end things.”
“Come visit me,” Camden suggests. “I’m heading to Texas because there’s a hurricane in the Gulf. You can see your parents, do an on-air test, and just storm watch with me.”
“I just started my job, Cam. I don’t have vacation time yet.”
“Don’t tell Leon it’s a vacation. Tell him you want to cover the story because Portland could, potentially, have a hurricane someday, and you want to be prepared.”
I laugh at his absurdity. “I doubt Leon will go for it.”
“Eh,” he says. I know he’s shrugging his shoulders. He does it every time he brushes something off. He makes life sound so easy. Maybe his is, but mine feels like a complicated mess. “Call Leon, and then call me back.” Camden hangs up, leaving my protest hanging in the air. I pull my phone away in disbelief and find myself smiling at the text message from him.
Camden Porter: Call him. Call me. Let’s meet in Texas!
He’s crazy, and as tempted as I am, I won’t do it. I don’t want to rock the boat with Leon. What I have here—what I’m building here—it’s a solid foundation for my future.
“Still trying to decide if you want to burn your throat?” the bartender asks.
“Something like that.” He laughs and walks away.
I ordered the stupid drink. I might as well try it. I pick up the tumbler and bring the rim to my mouth and tip my head back. As soon as the whiskey touches my tongue, I know it’s not for me and quickly pull the glass away. I hear laughter and glance at the bartender, who is shaking his head. Wise guy.