It Started with a Kiss
Pulling out my phone, I’m about to text him to just tell him he’s on my mind, but I hear, “Can I buy you a drink?” The voice is deep with a soft Italian accent by way of Jersey more than Italy.
When I lay my eyes on the guy who slid on the barstool next to me, I’m pleasantly surprised. I mean, he’s not my type, but he matches his voice—large build, enough scruff has grown back after a long day. That reminds me of Jackson. I don’t hate a coating of scruff on him. In fact, I love it. I just can’t tell him, or he might never shave again, and if I had to choose, the sight of that jaw would win every time.
The sound of dishes clattering together grabs my attention, but then I look next to me again. This guy’s light-gray suit lacks a tie, and the collar is unbuttoned. Leaning against the counter, he says, “I ordered a scotch.”
“Good choice. I’m having wine, but I can cover it.” Just barely, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Thanks, though.”
As if she heard, a server hops behind the counter and asks me what I want.
“Chardonnay. The house wine will do. Thank you.” I’m tempted to tell him I’m on a budget these days, choosing the four-dollar six-ounce glass of wine over the larger size I usually order, but I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my choices. Especially not a stranger. I temper my embarrassment and take a quick breath to swallow it down.
Living on a budget might be new, but it’s respectable. It’s what I should have been doing my entire adult life. I just didn’t know I needed to.
He leans over, not breaching the middle between us, and whispers, “I was supposed to get married today.”
My mouth falls open, but I catch my expression before my eyes bug out. Besides it being the middle of the week, that’s quite a bomb he dropped on me, again, a total stranger. He waves as if he’s tired of explaining. “New Year’s would have been nice, but everything’s cheaper on Wednesdays.”
Ah. Yes. “Why are you sitting here at this hour when you should be with your wife?”
Glancing at me, he’s quick to avert his eyes, revealing guilt or sadness. I’m not sure which one, so I try to break the ice again, feeling sorry for him. “Where’s the beautiful bride?”
He finally scrubs a hand over his face, his slicked-back hair starting to loosen. When he looks at me, scanning my face, he smiles as if he doesn’t mind what he sees. I’ve never had trouble attracting men. I have trouble trusting them.
Angling toward me, he says, “Having sex with my best man, Barry.”
“Oh.” Maybe I should have left this guy alone.
“She had sex with him before the ceremony. They were found in the church office.”
Our drinks are set before us, and I pull a bill out of my wallet. It doesn’t matter if it’s one of my last. The man deserves a drink. “I think I need to buy you a drink.”
“Thanks.” He tips his glass to me and laughs before taking a gulp. “You ready for the kicker?”
I take a sip of my chardonnay. “I don’t know, am I?” This story is riveting. I take another drink, my body finally easing from the tension I’ve felt all day.
“They hit the microphone for the sanctuary.”
Practically spitting out my wine, I cover my mouth with my hand and swallow it down. “Whoa. I was not ready for that.”
“See? And whoa is right.” He takes another gulp of the liquor and then says, “Did I tell you that our families and friends were already seated?”
I know I shouldn’t, but I laugh, then cover my mouth again. “No, you failed to mention that. I have so many questions. Do you mind if I pry?”
He’s smiling, even laughing. That’s good, all things considered. “No, I have nothing to hide, but I never want to hear the name Barry again in my life. You would have thought it was on repeat.”
“Sounds like it was.”
He cringes just a little but grins again. “She never called out my name.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“That my fiancée didn’t call my name out in ecstasy?”
“That and the whole fiasco.” Twirling the stem of my glass, I ask, “How did you end up here, especially at this hour?”
He glances out the window. I thought he was a lot older earlier, older than me, but I’m now rethinking my guess. I’d say early thirties at most once he relaxed. “I was heading from a bar down the street where a large group of us went to celebrate—”
“You were celebrating?”
He shrugs. “Figured I dodged a bullet. Was I hurt? Pissed off? Yes, of course. I loved her. I’ve also had a few hours and some drinks to reevaluate the relationship. The image of my best friend and fiancée fucking before marrying me, and then everyone I know hearing them kind of tainted that love. Now I wonder if she loved me at all.”