Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65582 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 328(@200wpm)___ 262(@250wpm)___ 219(@300wpm)
Stepping behind the tall counter, his gaze goes down, his eyes looking anywhere but at me. “Ms. Ryan isn’t here right now.”
There’s this sickness, this ball that grows when I think about Virginia and the asshole together. I know she cancelled with me saying she was going to meet him, but that stupid little emotion named hope has stayed the course with me, hanging out in the most unlikely of places—my heart—since she walked out. I don’t know. Maybe I was naïve to think she wouldn’t go through with it. She doesn’t owe me anything. Not her heart, nor her virginity. But damn it, that doesn’t mean I didn’t want both. I’m a guy for fuck’s sake.
But if I can’t have the latter, I want the former and I’ll take it without hesitation. Her heart’s what matters. I can’t give her the other so if she goes through with it with the asshole, I’ll still be here just like I promised.
Resting my hands on the counter, I ask, “Do you mind if I wait?”
“Not at all, Mr. Richard.”
“Hardy.”
“Hardy,” he repeats with a tight expression that shows me he knows what’s up. “Bourbon?”
“What?”
He holds up a flask. “If you’d like, I’ve got something that might take the edge off.”
“I could use something to warm me up.”
“Edge, not the chill, but it will do a good job of both.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“That and that you’re here in the middle of a blizzard and she’s out there. Missed connections.” He hands me the flask.
I take a shot. It’s the cheap shit, but I’ll take it. After one more gulp, I give it back. He follows with a shot of his own. I start to say, “I think I’m in lov—”
His hands go up. “Sorry, Hardy. I’m a doorman, not a bartender. Save your troubles for someone who can give you good advice.”
“I’m a bartender.”
Nodding, he laughs. “You’re screwed then. If you don’t have the answers, the rest of us are screwed too.”
“I make cocktails.” I lean against the counter. “I don’t solve the worlds problems.”
“Seems you can’t solve your own either.”
“Give me that flask.”
He pulls it back out from under the desk and hands it to me. While I drink, he says, “I’m twice divorced and just got dumped last week. I’m not so keen on the love story anymore.”
Putting the cap on the steel bottle, I give it back and then take my gloves off. “I never was and then . . . it just kind of hit me.”
“Blindsided,” he adds, nodding.
“Yeah, like a tackle to the heart.”
“But more violent.”
I chuckle. “Guess we’ll see on that one. But I’m here.”
“In a snowstorm no less.”
“Ready to see if we even have a story.”
“It’s not about the story, the hows, whys, or wheres. It’s about the ending. This is your chance to write the ending you want.”
He’s right. Like the bourbon, he’s hitting me right in the feels.
***Barry’s drunk. He’s been on the phone for the last forty-five minutes with his girlfriend. At one point he told her, “I don’t want caviar. I’m happy with fish sticks . . . No, not that you’re fish sticks. I didn’t mean that. I meant I love you. Let’s go to Atlantic City for New Year’s and get married.”
He’s gone and done it now. Scrubbing my hands over my face, I stand. It’s after eight. The sun never came out and the pitch black of a sunshine-less world settled in. I try not to think it’s an omen, but Virginia’s still not home. That little doorstopper of hope that was holding my heart wide open for her has begun to slide closed.
Picking up my scarf, I wrap it around my neck and slip on my coat. I put my gloves on and walk to the desk. “I guess I’m gonna go.”
He says into the phone, “Let me call you back, Dolores . . . I will. Right back. I love you too.” When he hangs up, he comes around and stands at the door. No one has come or gone for hours, much to his delight and the detriment of my idea of this great reunion. He turns to me. His eyes are glazed, his hat left back at the desk. His top button is open and his gloves are off. “You can’t get far in this weather, at night.”
“I’ll get a hotel the next block over.”
We both stand there, staring through the glass. There seems to be a small break in the snowfall, so I take the opportunity to leave. “Will you tell her I stopped by and give this to her?”
He takes the bag from me. “I will.”
Patting him on the back, I say, “Congrats on the engagement, and thanks for the bourbon.”
“You’re welcome, Hardy. Happy holidays.”
I pull on my hat, and when he opens the door, I walk back into the cold, dark night. “Happy holidays.”