Don't Kiss the Bride
He shakes his head and laughs. “Just having a really shitty night. I’m not ready to go home yet.”
Exhaling a cloud of smoke, I nod. “I’m in the same boat. I was just headin’ to a bar my buddy owns down the street. Gonna have a drink, maybe shoot some pool or play darts to clear my fuckin’ head. Want to join me? You stand here much longer you’re probably gonna freeze to death or get mugged again.”
He takes a phone out of his pocket and stares at it like he’s waiting for it to ring. Minutes ago, I was doing the same thing. There’s some bad mojo in the air tonight.
“Ya know what?” he says. “Why not. I owe you a few drinks.”
Grinning, I wipe my hand on my jeans and hold it out to him. “Name’s Jude Lucketti. My friends call me Lucky.”
“Asher Valentine.”
Motherfuck me. I just saved Asher Valentine—lead singer of one of my favorite rock bands, Ashes & Embers—from getting mugged. I knew he looked familiar. Skylar’s gonna lose her mind when I tell her—she’s crazy about this guy.
“The singer?” I say.
He shrugs. “On some days.”
This dude looks tired. Like he wants to be anyone but himself right now, and that’s a mood I can relate to.
“Not today,” I say, leading him down the dark street. “Today you’re just a guy going to have a drink.”
Uncle Al’s bar is old, dark and dingy. A real hole-in-the-wall—the kind of place you wouldn’t even notice unless you were looking for it. And not many people are. Only the old regulars still come here to hang out and drink away their lives every day. Anyone else would be afraid to come in. But it’s a damn good place to forget about the world for a while.
I nod at Uncle Al and two old guys when we walk inside the musty room. None of them look away from the tiny, dust-covered TV playing behind the bar.
“Hey, Lucky. What’ll ya have tonight?” Uncle Al says.
“Give us two Long Islands!” I yell as we sit at my usual table in the back. “Good for you?” I ask Asher.
He nods. “I’m easy.”
Uncle Al brings us our drinks and pats me on the back before he heads back to his station behind the bar.
“That hits the spot,” I say after taking a sip. It burns going down, and I wish I’d had dinner.
The guy across from me looks like he’s having an equally bad night and I wonder what’s so bad that a rich, famous rock star wants to sit and have a drink with a stranger in a dive bar.
“So where’s home?” I ask.
“Small town in New Hampshire.”
“Really?” I’m surprised I never knew that. “Me too. Lived in Brookline my entire life.”
“Small world,” he says. “I got some friends in Brookline.”
I tip my drink at him. “Now you got another one.”
“Can’t have too many friends.” He shrugs off his jacket and leans back in the cracked leather booth. “You work here in the city?”
“Rarely. I’m in construction. Most of my jobs are local.”
He glances over at my uncle skeptically. “And he’s your buddy?”
I let out a laugh. “Nah, he’s my Uncle Al. I wander in here a couple times a month. Check in on him. Play some pool or darts, get a few free drinks. It reminds me I don’t want to end up like them.” I cock my head toward the two old men at the bar. They’re always here. “Lonely. Drinking all day. Nothing at home. Fuck that.”
Despite my aversion to commitments and relationships, I don’t want to grow old alone.
“I hear ya.” I catch him eyeing the wedding band on my hand. “You married?”
I stare at my finger, surprised I forgot to take it off earlier. Sometimes, when I’m getting dressed and put my other rings on, I slip the ring on and think about Skylar and our wedding day. Testing what it would feel like to wear it. To forget all the bullshit and the judgement and just let the marriage be real. I don’t know why I did it today. Wishful thinking.
“I guess you could say that. My life’s a mess, man. And I don’t know how the fuck it got that way.”
“That’s usually the way it happens.”
I shake my head and swirl the ice cubes in my drink. “Ever just have a chick totally haunt you? Like no matter what, you just can’t get her out of your head? Out of your veins?”
Closing his eyes, he nods like he knows exactly what I’m talking about. “Yup. Been living that since I was fifteen years old. I wouldn’t change it, though.”
Fifteen years old. Wow.
“This girl is doing my head in. I’ve never felt like this.” I lean forward and whisper, “She’s only eighteen. Eight-fucking-teen. What the fuck? I gotta be sick, right? To feel that way?”