two stools down from me—far enough away that it isn’t presumptuous, but close enough to send a message.
“Okay, I gotta go,” I say, already pulling the phone away from my ear.
“Love you,” she says, just before I hang up.
I drop my phone on the bar as the suit finally speaks.
“Can I get two Dos Equis with lime and two Bud Lights?”
His voice sends a warm shiver down my spine. It’s smooth and refined, no hint of a twang.
The bartender grunts and starts reaching for beers so he can pop the tops.
I glance to my left just enough to see that the suit is checking out my shot glass full of cherries with narrowed eyes. It dawns on me that he probably thinks I’m underage.
“I’ll take a Dos Equis too,” I blurt out suddenly, without thought. Apparently, my pride is worth the five bucks the beer will cost me, though that’s nearly an hour’s wage. An hour of scrubbing toilets and making beds and trying to avoid weird stains left by weird people, all gone because of a childish impulse.
I don’t want a beer, but now I have no choice because the bartender’s already popping the top and reaching for limes.
Country music plays softly, filling the silence that stretches between me and the suit. If he’s going to make a move, this is his time to do it.
I hold my breath, waiting for him to turn fully toward me and say something charming. I’ve heard a lot of opening lines from a lot of men in this town, nearly all of them unwelcome. It’s got me curious to see what this guy has to offer. Surely he’d be better. Surely he knows how to make a woman forget about her troubles, even if just for the night.
I peer over at him from beneath my lashes. He’s taken off his suit jacket, and his white collared shirt is rolled up to reveal his muscled forearms. His shiny silver watch winks at me under the hazy bar lights. Its dark brown leather strap is a good disguise, but I still recognize its value—likely more than the car I’m trying desperately to fix or even the trailer my mom inherited from her father that we’ve lived in my whole life.
That damn watch is a sucker punch to my gut after the day I’ve had, a visual representation of how different life is for some people.
Five beers clink on the bar top, and before the suit walks away with four of them, he tells the bartender to add my beer to his tab. Just that. Not a word in my direction. He just assumes I want him paying for my beer.
Arrogant bastard.
If I could afford to do it, I would refuse. Instead, I say nothing.
As he walks back to rejoin his friends, I dissect every possible motive he might have had for buying my drink. Maybe he was just being polite. Maybe he took one look at my thrift-store jeans and white t-shirt and felt a sense of pity. Sure, there’s a little hole in the armpit, but it’s still a decent shirt!
Whatever he was thinking, that beer tastes like piss as I down the first sip.
I want to leave it there on the bar, untouched, but I have nothing better to do than drink it as I sit and wait for Jeremy to come pick me up. He’s late and not answering his phone. I try his number again and the call goes unanswered. I’m half convinced he won’t show up at all.
I stifle a groan at the idea of having to find another way home. There’s a ten-mile stretch of highway between our trailer and this bar, ten miles I’d have to walk in the dead of night. I’ve done it before, a few times, but I’d rather not do it today. I don’t think I have it in me. I’d be better off heading to that booth in the corner and tucking myself in for the night.
When a round of laughter comes from the men behind me, I resist the urge to turn around. Another sip of beer warms my belly, and I realize it’s starting to go to my head. I’m a lightweight. I don’t drink often, and especially not on an empty stomach. The world gets fuzzy and my problems come into sharp focus.
I lied to my mom on the phone. When I told her we could figure out another option, I sounded hopeful, but what hope is there? What