About That Night

by Natalie Ward

  Emma looks even more confused now and I can’t help but laugh a little. “Okay, let’s start small,” I suggest. “So, Dr Emma…?” I wait, hoping she doesn’t see right through me and my not-so-subtle attempt to find out her full name. Emma swallows hard, as though contemplating what she should say, whether she should give me this much.

  “Young,” she eventually says.

  I nod. “Dr Emma Young. Alright then, tell me Dr Young, in some alternate universe, if you weren’t an ER doctor, what would you be doing instead?”

  Emma lets out a small breath, as though she’s relieved we’re talking about her work and not something personal. She doesn’t realise that this is personal though, that her answer will tell me so much more than she knows. Bartending 101. Lure your customer into talking about something they’re comfortable with and you’d be amazed at the other stuff that leaks out.

  I watch as she shrugs. “Don’t know,” she eventually says. “Internal medicine maybe.”

  “Internal medicine?” I ask, not really understanding what that means. Knowing also, that she didn’t understand my question.

  “It’s like ER medicine, only without the emergencies,” she says.

  “Right,” I nod, going with it. “And you like this because?”

  She shrugs again and I get the feeling she isn’t actually sure she does like it. That maybe she has no idea what she wants to do. “You get to practice lots of different medicine,” she says. “I like that part of it.”

  “Makes sense,” I say. “So when’s the decision need to be made?”

  “I don’t know,” she eventually says. “Soon, now.”

  “And…?”

  She shakes her head, shifting on her seat a little. “And I don’t know what to do,” she says. “And that’s the problem.”

  I nod a little as I move to serve a customer, using the time to try and work out how I can ask why without it looking like I’m prying. Eventually I return to her end of the bar, placing another beer in front of her without bothering to ask if she wants one. She eyes the new beer, before lifting her eyes to mine. I shrug, grabbing a beer for myself as though to say it’s okay, because we’re drinking together.

  “So,” I eventually say. “What about a different sort of medicine then, something completely different to the ER or internal medicine thing?”

  Emma shrugs again, making me wonder if any of it is what she really wants to do.

  “Maybe something completely different?” I suggest, nudging her down the path. “Not medicine?”

  Her eyes flick to mine giving me a look that I can’t decipher but which still burns right through me. “Have you always wanted to be a bartender?” she asks in a way that I should take offence to.

  Actually, that I do take offence to.

  “No,” I say, swallowing hard. “But I have always wanted to own my own bar, so you know, mission accomplished,” I add, waving my arm around the room, wondering how the fuck she can ask me something like that.

  She knows nothing about me. Nothing about the things I’ve gone through to get this place. To keep it after everything went to shit. She has no idea and it pisses me off that she doesn’t, even though there’s no way she could know any of these things and it’s shit of me to pretend like she should.

  Emma nods quickly, as though she realises what she’s done. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

  I stare at her, notice the faint flush of embarrassment on her cheeks. I nod, even though she isn’t looking at me and I’m not sure I believe her.

  “I wasn’t meaning to imply anything,” she says. “It came out wrong.”

  I keep watching her, wondering if I should say something to ease her guilt even though I’m not sure I want to. I don’t care if she thinks me owning this bar isn’t a worthwhile pastime, but I do care that she judges me for it when she has no idea of the full story. But she won’t look at me, eventually lifting her eyes to look anywhere but at me.

  “If anything, I envy you,” she continues. “Knowing what you want. Getting what you want,” she adds, as her eyes roam the room now. “You’re lucky.”

  I continue to watch her as she surveys my bar, her eyes filled with something that isn’t loneliness anymore but might be a longing instead. It occurs to me that not only does she have no idea what it is she wants to do with her life, but she has no idea how to go about finding it either. And while she might think I’ve gotten everything I’ve always wanted, she doesn’t understand the sacrifices I’ve had to make either. All the things I’ve lost along the way.

  I swallow hard, wondering if I should admit how alike we really are, even knowing that’s a can of worms I don’t want to open right now, or ever. “Maybe you need to try something else,” I suggest.

  She shakes her head. “Can’t. I’ve worked too hard to get to this point.”

  “And?”

  She finally looks back at me, her eyes on mine. “And it would be a waste to just give it all up.”

  I stare back at her wondering if she really believes that or if she’s just too scared to try. “I don’t think that’s true,” I say, the words floating between us, a memory of a conversation just like this nudging at the back of my brain, reminding me I was in Emma’s shoes once and thought the exact same thing. How easy it would have been to give all this up and walk away. How pissed off she would have been with me if I’d done that.

  “And you never know,” I add. “You might find whatever it is you don’t know you’re looking for.”

  Emma’s dark eyes continue to stare at me, searching, almost as though she can somehow find the answers in my own eyes. I watch her carefully, wondering if I’ve gone too far, said too much. That she can somehow read all of this experience and memory and torment on my own face.

  Or maybe I’ve just hit the nail right on the head, said all the things that no one else has been able to. All the things I never wanted to hear either.

  I can’t work it out, but the longer she says nothing, the more uncomfortable I’m starting to feel. She has this way of watching me that makes me feel exposed, as though she doesn’t just understand all the things I’m saying, but she hears all the things I’m not saying too.

  “Okay,” I say clearing my throat, knowing I need to get the focus off me before we detour into really dangerous territory. I can forget the insult about being a bartender if we can just get off this topic. “Let’s make a list.”

  “A list?” she says, surprised.

  I nod. “Yeah,” I say, grabbing a napkin and smoothing it out on the bar in front of her as I pull a pen from behind my ear. “Pros and cons.”

  “Of what?” she asks.

  I chuckle a little. “ER, internal medicine or something else entirely.”

  Emma shakes her head. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  “Sure it is,” I say, writing the three options along the top of the napkin and dividing it into three columns. “Right, so ER. Get to practice lots of medicine,” I start. “But lots of bad stuff too,” I add.

  Emma watches me as I write down the words, hesitation and apprehension written all over her face because I know she doesn’t want to play this game.

  “What else?” I ask, glancing up at her. She shrugs, giving me nothing. “Come on,” I say, smiling in encouragement. “What else do you love about the ER?”

  “Saving lives,” she says quickly.

  “Right,” I nod. “Definitely a good thing. Anything else?”

  She shrugs again. “The people?” she suggests, as though she isn’t sure this counts.

  I smile at her. “The people, definitely important,” I say, adding this to the list. “Next?”

  Emma stares at the napkin, the words scrawled on it in my barely legible handwriting. “The death,” she says next, her voice flat and detached, just like before. “The death is a bad thing.”

  I watch her for a second, wondering if she really wants me to write that down or if maybe she didn’t mean to say it out lo
ud.

  “The death,” she repeats, still staring at my hand. “And the failure. The letting people down, failing them.”

  “Emma,” I say, putting the pen down.

  “Write it down,” she says, gesturing. “We’re making a list, right?”

  I watch her, watch the way she refuses to look at me now and I instantly regret suggesting we do this. It’s one thing to joke around about finding something else to do with your life, but it’s quite another thing to rehash all the reasons why. Especially given she’s already had a shit day at work and a shit night afterwards, and now I’m only adding to that. I’m a fucking idiot for suggesting this.

  “It’s okay,” I say, picking up the napkin and scrunching it up. “We don’t have to.”

  “No,” she says quickly, grabbing my hand.

  We both freeze, our eyes on our joined hands, the edges of the napkin peeking through. Her hand feels cold against mine but it still manages to send an unexpected shot of heat up my arm. I watch as she slowly pulls back her fingers, exposing the white knuckles of mine as I grip the napkin. Without saying anything, I unlock my fingers, flatten the napkin on the bar and wait for her to continue.

  Emma takes a deep breath. “The long hours too,” she starts, her voice shaking slightly. “And the nights and weekends.”

  I finally look up at her and find she’s already watching me, a look on her face that I can’t read. “Where am I putting them?” I ask, the words catching in my throat.

  “Both ER and Internal Medicine,” she says.

  “Anything else?” I ask, already knowing the cons list for both of these careers is going to be longer and far more painful than the pro list.

  “Loss of social life,” she adds. “Never being able to make plans.”

  I nod, adding them to both medical careers because I know they apply to both. “Okay then,” I say, desperate to get onto something lighter. “What about no medicine and doing something else entirely?”

  She stares at me, says nothing for what feels like forever before she finally says, “The wasted study. The medical degree that will mean nothing.”

  I stare back at her, not writing anything down at first. And as I do, I notice for the first time, just how trapped she looks. As though she’s worked all this time for something she so desperately wanted, only to find out that it’s the very thing that’s trapped her in this life of unhappiness. And as much as she might want to change things, she has no idea how to without feeling like she’s giving up. As though she’s throwing away everything she’s worked so hard for.

  Emma holds my stare, even as she lifts her beer for a sip. I finally look away; write down the cons in the empty column of the magical alternative career. But then I add some pros to the other side, things I know she would never suggest because I already know she’d never let herself think them. Things like; helping people in some other way that doesn’t mean I lose my own life and using all the things I’ve learnt in different ways. She watches me without saying anything, even as I write the third option, the riskiest one: getting to be happy.

  I put the pen down and slide the napkin towards her. She looks at it, reading the words I’ve written. I watch her, watch the way she licks her bottom lip as she does, pulling it into her mouth so she’s biting down on it, as though trying to stop herself from saying anything else. Eventually she picks up the pen, adding love medicine to both the ER and Internal Medicine columns. She then slides it towards me before folding up the napkin and putting it in her purse.

  I pick up the pen and slide it into my back pocket, unsure what to say next. How to find a way for her to do the thing she loves so much but also be happy and have a life. Almost as soon as I think this, I realise how much it mirrors my own life. How owning and running my own bar was something that deep down, I always wanted to do. That it was a risk we both took, a risk I thought was going to pay off but one that ultimately had a price I had to pay. A price that meant I didn’t just lose a part of my life, I also lost the part that made me happy.

  “So,” Emma eventually says. “What should we talk about now?”

  ~ Emma

  I watch Nick, waiting for his response. Wait to find out how he’s going to answer me. I already know what I want to talk about. Time to turn this little game of his on its head. I didn’t even want to play it in the first place, but if he’s going to push, then I’m going to push back.

  After all, fair’s fair.

  And two can play this game.

  “Don’t mind,” he shrugs, pulling a tray of glasses from the small dishwasher under the bar. The steam billows out, momentarily obscuring him from view.

  “Alright then,” I say. “Why don’t you tell me more about how it is you came to be the owner of this place then?”

  His reaction to my question tells me what I already knew. He doesn’t want to talk about it. And I know I’m being a bitch, but right now, I don’t care. Nick didn’t care when he pushed me to answer his questions, tell him all the things I loved and hated about my job. It’s not like he even stopped when it was obvious I didn’t want to talk about it, when I felt uncomfortable about where that particular conversation was going.

  Shit, he even made me cry when I first walked in here.

  “Easy,” he answers, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “I always wanted to open a bar, so I worked my arse off to make it happen and then I did it.”

  I watch him, not believing a word he’s telling me. He won’t even look at me now and he’s suddenly weirdly focused on drying the clean glasses and putting them away. His explanation is definitely not the whole story and he doesn’t even realise how much his body language betrays him. It’s so obvious how much he doesn’t want to talk about this, how much he’s lying right now, that I can’t help but want to know more. Want to push a little harder.

  “That’s it, huh?”

  “Yep,” he says, glancing over as he reaches for a bottle of scotch on the shelf behind him. I watch as he pours himself a generous drink, not bothering to offer me one this time, before he picks up the glass and throws it back in one go. He winces, before pouring himself another one. Then he replaces the bottle on the shelf, staring at it for a second as though he’s wondering if that just happened.

  Or maybe he’s wondering if he isn’t going to need more of it to continue this conversation.

  That’s when I know I’ve hit a nerve.

  “Alright then,” I say, lifting my beer to my mouth, my eyes on him as I take a long swallow of the cool liquid. I’m not sure if it’s the lack of food, the lack of sleep, or the fact that it’s been a couple of months since I drank this much in one sitting, but I’m starting to feel the effects of all this alcohol.

  I’m sure it’s what gives me the confidence to say what I say next.

  “So how come you’ve never really opened the bar then?”

  Nick’s head snaps up, his eyes finally locking with mine. “What?” his asks, practically spitting the question at me.

  “Well,” I say, lifting my hand and waving it around the now almost empty bar. “It’s like you’re ninety-five percent here and five percent missing,” I continue. “You’re not all in. Not for someone who claims to have always wanted this.”

  I’m not sure if this is entirely true. Maybe the kitchen just isn’t open on certain nights. But I get the feeling there’s more to it than that. It definitely felt like them ordering in food was a common thing and given the set up for serving food is already here, it doesn’t make sense that he wouldn’t have opened it.

  Nick shakes his head at me as he pulls the towel from the back pocket of his jeans and starts wiping down imaginary marks on the bar. I can tell I’ve pissed him off with my words; the muscles in his jaw are already rippling under his skin as he tries not to speak.

  It’s kinda fascinating to watch, the way he fights the urge to start a fight with me, the way his jaw clenches, the muscles pulling and contracting. I try to imagine the rapid fire of nerve impulses that are holding it a
ll in place, the grinding of teeth as he struggles to comply with his brain’s commands.

  Just when I’m about to ask again, push it that little bit further, the other bartender calls out his name. Nick’s head snaps up and even though I can’t see his face, I can practically feel the relief that flows through him at the distraction. I’m certain he’s going to walk off and ignore me, not answer my question, but then he stops, eyes staring at the wood panel in front of him.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Emma.”

  And then he walks off and I’m left feeling like shit for the way I just acted towards him.

  I spend the next ten or so minutes sitting at the end of the bar, nursing the last of my beer as I watch Nick. He’s completely ignoring me now, pretty much ignoring everyone actually. There’s still a couple of customers left and even though he’s polite enough to them, he’s nothing like he was when I first walked in here tonight.

  I know now that I’ve really have pissed him off. That maybe I went too far with my questions.

  I should take it as a sign and an excuse to leave and go home. It’s late enough that Owen won’t give me shit for bailing and I’m fairly certain Nick won’t even notice I’ve gone.

  In fact, I doubt he’d even care.

  I’m not even sure why I care.

  “What’d you say to get him so pissed off?”

  I blink, realise the other bartender is now standing in front of me, hands on hips and an unimpressed look on his face.

  “Nothing,” I say, shrugging as though it’s no big deal.

  “Bullshit,” he says, reaching for another beer and sliding it in front of me. What is it with these two and giving me drinks all night? Are they trying to get me drunk?

  I pick up the bottle, my thumb scratching at the label. “I just asked him about this place,” I say. “It was nothing.”

  I’m so full of shit, it’s not funny. It wasn’t just nothing and I know it. Like any good virus, I found the weakness, the tiny little crack that lets the bad in and I exploited it, took advantage of a lowering of the defenses and used it against him.