by BK Rivers
Ha! That’s a loaded question. It’s more like what isn’t wrong with me? Why, when shit goes bad like it did today, do I crave a drink? Why am I sitting here with two drinks in my hand and unable to actually gulp them down? Even though I want to—so damn bad. Why in the hell was I made to crave substances that can kill me and hurt those I love? I just want to slam down these drinks, but then what does that say about me? I’m a piece of shit loser who can’t keep his head straight. That’s what it says. Just like my father used to tell me over and over. Despite Roger thinking it would be a good idea to patch things up with my parents, the words my dad said are something I can’t ever un-hear, and no matter how much someone might beg for forgiveness, those words are still there. They hang around like a scar or a tattoo and never leave despite trying to cover them up. I will always be the disappointment my father made me believe I was. Always.
“You okay, man?” Colt asks, appearing in front of me after a while. “You’ve been here almost an hour and still haven’t taken a drink.” He glances down at the two glasses then back at me, his brow creased. “Want me to call someone for you?”
“No,” I answer enthusiastically, which causes a few heads to turn my way. Waving them off, I grab the glass of Jim Beam and pick it up and pull it to my lips. The spicy scent and burn of alcohol hits my nose, making me gag. I slam the glass on the counter and motion to Colt that I’ll be back. I’ve got to get my shit together.
Quickly finding the bathroom in the back of the bar, I step inside and lock the door, thankful for a single toilet. The faucet is older, the kind where you have to actually twist the knobs, so I turn the cold on full blast. I let it run while I lean over the sink with my hands on the ledge. I still don’t like to look in the mirror, and today is no exception.
When I walked inside the bar, I expected the feel of the glass to be like a friend I haven’t seen in years. I thought it would be easy—natural—to down a shot of whiskey. But everything in this bar is mocking me, telling me what a failure I am. How I can’t manage to deal with my issues like a normal, rational person.
The sink is filling up despite the missing drain plug, so I quickly turn off the water before sinking my hands in the chilly water. For a moment it almost stings, but the slight pain is welcome as it dulls a small part of me. I splash water over my face, thrilled with the way it feels like the sting of a slap. This is exactly what I need, an icy pool to dive into, to dull the ache in my chest.
A hard knock on the door interrupts my solitude, earning a string of muttered curses directed at the guy outside. I pull a few paper towels from the dispenser to dry my hands, toss them in the trash, and then open the door to an old man so wrinkled I can’t imagine he ever looked young.
“About time,” Wrinkles says through a toothless, shriveled mouth. He brushes past me and slams the door.
Colt hasn’t taken my drinks away. He jerks his head in greeting as I sit down and resume my position of holding both drinks in my hands. Both drinks are whiskey, both will dull the ache in my chest, yet in my hands they taunt me, filling me with guilt.
I dip my index finger into the Jim Beam, noting the ice has already melted, pull it out, and bring it to my lips. If I just let this single drop forming on the tip of my finger fall into my mouth, maybe that will get me over this hump. As the drop grows and threatens to drop, Colt is suddenly in front of me and uses a bar rag to dry my finger. I pull my hand away quickly and slam it down on the bar.
“What the hell, man?” My voice is strained from trying not to shout at him for ruining the chance I was giving myself to get over this…fear.
“Don’t do it,” he says as he crosses his massive arms over his burly chest. “I’ve been where you are, and if it weren’t for some asshole stopping me, I wouldn’t be here today.”
“Yeah, well, this is a shitty place to work for an alcoholic,” I deadpan, then shove the glasses toward him.
“This is my bar, asswipe.”
“Like I said, pretty shitty place to work for an alcoholic.”
“This place saved my life.” Colt snatches my drinks from the edge of the bar and dumps the alcohol into the sink. He pulls a highball from the back counter, fills it with water and ice, and hands it to me. “This one’s on the house,” he says with a laugh. “Those other two will cost you a Benjamin.”
I choke on the water and slam the glass on the bar a little too hard, though it thankfully doesn’t shatter
“A hundred bucks? Hell no,” I say, shoving the water back toward him.
“I figure your plan was to down at least two bottles, so you might as well feel the sting in your wallet for your poor intentions.”
“Poor intentions or not, you wouldn’t charge Wrinkles over there fifty bucks for two bottles of whiskey, would you?” I point to the old man, who notices and gives me the bird.
“Old Roy?” Colt laughs, bringing his hands to the edge of the bar. “Yeah, I’d make him give me his granddaughter for that. She is one fine-looking woman.” Um, okay? I glance to Old Roy and wonder what kind of spawn he could make that would produce a good-looking woman.
“Whatever does it for you, man.” I pull my wallet from my front pocket and pull out the cash for the drinks I didn’t consume, and prepare to leave, but Colt pins me in the seat with a glare.
“Working here, owning this bar, it’s not easy, and sometimes, yes, it’s a shitty place to work. But it’s mine. I own it, and I wouldn’t trade working here for a single drop of liquor, ever.” Colt wipes down the bar in front of me with his bar rag and then steps back, leaning against the narrow counter behind him. “So if I can own a bar and work in it seven days a week, then you, Jordan Capshaw, can leave here without taking a drink too.”
I figured he knew who I was, so he’s fully aware of my current sobriety status—the entire world is.
“Why did you pour me a drink if you knew all about me? You ever think you may be in the wrong line of work if you’re serving alcoholics and drug addicts booze?”
Colt erupts into deep laughter and crosses his massive arms over his chest. “You know what, Jordan? I like you; you’re good people. How did you find yourself in the middle of old Phoenix in my bar?”
And just like that I spill the contents of my day to him like we’ve been best friends since birth. They say women tell all their secrets to their hairdressers; if that’s true, then men share with their bartenders. Colt listens while I explain to him how I won’t share Reggie with another man or that I don’t have a great example of a father figure to model myself after. When I finish dumping my worries on him, he stands back, arms crossed over his chest, and appraises me for longer than I feel is necessary.
Finally, he speaks. “So what you’re saying is you’re chicken shit.” His arms drop as he steps toward me and places his hands on the counter, leaning in.
“Anyone ever tell you that you’re a scary S.O.B.?” I ask, leaning back a bit to escape his pinning glare.
“Face it, Jordan. You totally freaked out and abandoned the woman you love in the middle of a freaking grocery store to deal with her feelings. Shit, man. You royally screwed the pooch.”
“Yeah, I can see that now. What would you have done?” I’d like to see what he thinks would’ve been a better way to play out the scenario. When he bends over, resting his elbows on the bar, his shoulders drop a bit. Thank God, because he was scary intimidating leaning over me like that.
“Sure, I probably would have been a little mad, shocked for sure. But I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have left her alone to deal with everything on her own. You didn’t even give her a chance to explain anything.”
I bury my face in my hands and hope I can get my shit together enough to talk to her, figure out where to go from here. It’s time to find out if I have what it takes to be a father figure or not. At this given moment, sitting in a bar, I’m the worst kind of person that neither Reggie nor her son need.
“Thanks, Colt,” I say, slapping his hand and giving it a good shake. “Y
ou’re a better bartender than I gave you credit for. See ya around.”
Step one: get my shit together.
Step two: talk to my girl.
Chapter 32
Reggie
I’m late. No, not that kind of late—that all turned out fine. I’m talking the kind of late that is going to earn me a firm reprimand from my boss. I didn’t want to go in to Eggceptional tonight after the day I had, but I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t want to go in looking like a blotchy-faced mess, so I showered, applied some concealer under my eyes, and showed up forty minutes late.
Rico greets me at the kitchen, his spatula in hand, and clucks his tongue at my tardiness.
“It’s a good thing I like you so much and covered for you when the boss called,” he teases as he points the greasy utensil in my direction. “What in the refried beans is wrong with you?” he asks as his eyes take in my puffy face. Hugs from Rico really are the best, because he doesn’t offer anything but friendship. He pulls me in and fresh tears spring to my face, but I quickly dry them and step away.
“That man of yours giving you trouble?” he asks as he flips a series of pancakes.
I shake my head, swallow back tears, and clear my throat. “No, not exactly,” I say, and then proceed to tell him how Jordan found out I have a son.
“And the jerk just took off, leaving you in the store?” I should probably mention that Rico is married and has seven kids at home—seven daughters—and he’s well aware of the drama that follows us. “Did you tell him who Micah’s father is?” Rico glances as me, a curious expression on his face. Other than my parents and Stacey, I haven’t ever told anyone else who Micah’s father is. Looking back now, maybe I should have, because the secrets have grown and grown, only to explode in my face.
“No, and I’m not sure he’s going to give me a chance to tell him.” I haven’t heard from Jordan after I sent the text earlier, and it’s killing me. For all I know, he could’ve been so upset that he took off and ran his car into a ditch and is dying on the side of the road.
Rico gives me another quick hug and sends me out on the floor to do my rounds. Somehow I make it through my late shift and arrive home without incident. Still no texts from Jordan, and I suspect I may not hear from him again.
***
Sunday passes in a blur, and Micah is off to school Monday morning. I’m back to work at the rental agency, still with no word from Jordan. I’m so tired from the lack of sleep. Anything and everything makes me cry, including some commercial on the radio this morning about a new weight-loss system that has changed people’s lives.
I thought my life was going to change, that by some miracle Jordan and I would make things work and I’d have my happy little family. But I was stupid and hid the one thing that could tear us apart. It’s time to stop wallowing; I can’t go back and change anything now.
By the end of the workday, I give a mental thanks to the Universe that I don’t have any shifts at Eggceptional tonight. Stacey and Micah have dinner ready when I arrive home, and it smells divine.
“Teriyaki chicken and rice, if you’re hungry,” Stacey says as she dishes up her and Micah’s plates.
“Look, Mom,” Micah practically squeals. “I helped Auntie make dinner.”
I wrap my arms around my boy in a tight hug and tell him how proud I am. He’s been showing a lot of interest in cooking lately, and I’m grateful Stacey is so patient and willing to indulge him in his creativity when I’m not here. All three of us sit down to eat, and I have to admit the food makes me feel a lot better, though I’m still so tired I could probably sleep for a week.
We spend the rest of the night playing board games in the living room until Micah can no longer keep his eyes open. Sometimes I rebel against standard parenting and let my boy stay up late on a school night. After the weekend I’ve had, a night like this was exactly what I needed. Micah yawns, closes his light brown eyes, and I declare the night over. He pads barefoot down the hall to his bedroom and, after Stacey and I have cleaned up the games, I go tuck him into bed.
The light is on in his room when I walk through the door, but he’s passed out on top of his Pokémon comforter, still in the clothes he’s been wearing all day. Pulling him up to his pillow, I pull his blankets up and give him a quick kiss on his forehead. As I stand at his doorway, I can’t help but marvel at my boy, knowing he’s the source of joy in my life and has been since the day he was born. Then it hits me; I already have the family I’ve always wanted. Even though we’re not a traditional husband, wife, and kids family, Micah is enough. He will always be enough. Stacey too.
A hand on my shoulder startles me, and when I turn, Stacey is standing behind me, a worried look on her face.
“Can we talk?” she asks, making my newly found happy realization take a tumble down through my stomach. I follow her back to the living room where we both plop onto the couch and sigh. I’m guessing for different reasons.
“I know you’ve had a really crappy weekend,” she says, pulling a pillow from behind her back and laying it on her lap. This is a signature move when she’s nervous about something. Sadly, my defenses raise, and I begin sweating. Stacey hasn’t been nervous around me for years.
“I’m pretty sure I’m only going to make it worse.” She glances down at her fingers and picks at a hangnail. Oh God. No. No, no, no.
“Stacey.” My voice floats from my mouth like the softest whisper. My eyes begin to sting, and the back of my throat twinges. Please don’t say it. Please.
“I love you,” she says in a rush. “You’re the sister I never had, and living with you has been amazing.”
I’m finding it difficult to breathe, and my heart is pounding in my ears, making her voice sound like it’s coming from underwater.
“I don’t know how to say this without hurting you, so I’m just going to come right out and say it.” She pauses, takes a deep breath, and runs all her words together. “But it’s time I move out and find who I am on my own.” Now we’re both crying, tears slipping down our faces and noses sniffling. Neither of us moves to console the other, and it feels like a deep chasm has been created suddenly and the gaping hole between us is black and deep.
“What am I going to do without you?” Somehow I manage to squeak out one of the many questions I have. “Are you mad at me?”
“No,” she says quickly. “It’s just time, Reggie. We both need to find out who we are and what we want out of life. Neither of us can do it while relying on the other person all the time.”
“What am I going to tell Micah? You’re like a second mother to him.”
Stacey gasps and brings her hands to her face, shielding the tears slipping down her cheeks. “I love that boy like he’s my own. That’s part of the problem, Reggie. He’s not my son, but there are days when I feel like he is. And I want that. I want kids of my own, but I’m never going to get that by living here with you.” Her words are muffled from covering her face, but I receive the message loud and clear. She’s moving on; she wants a life outside of me and Micah. I get it. I really do. But it still hurts, and it will be so strange not to have my best friend here with us.
Fresh tears pool along my bottom lids and then fall like heavy raindrops, landing on my pants in dark, wet circles. I need to gather my strength, support her as she’s supported me throughout the years and be there for her every step of the way. If anyone deserves it, it’s her.
I slide across the couch, toss her lap pillow on the floor, and pull her in for a hug, which only makes us both sob harder. Through our hiccup-riddled tears, we relive some of our best memories and laugh a little too.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” I say, wiping my face and sniffing back the last of my tears. Stacey dabs her face with a tissue and echoes my sniffing. Together we must look like quite the pair.
“I’m going to miss you and Micah so much. I’m not sure I know how to adult on my own, you know? I still feel eighteen sometimes, but it’s time to grow up and take life a litt
le more seriously now.”
“When will you move out?” Stacey hands me a couple tissues, and I wipe under my eyes, revealing a big, black mascara mess. Awesome.
“My place will be ready in three weeks,” she says with another sniffle. Three weeks?
“So soon.” My stomach sinks to my knees. “Where will you be living? Please tell me you’re not moving in with the MMA guy.”
Stacey cringes, scrunching up her freckled nose. She shakes her head enthusiastically. “Hell no,” she says with gusto. “That ended shortly after the Vegas trip.”
“What happened? He didn’t hurt you, did he?”
“Hardly. Let’s just say his muscles and physique weren’t exactly natural, and the ’roids have seriously affected his—”
“Whoa, okay. TMI,” I say with a giggle. We both have a good laugh, but a chime sounds nearby, indicating an incoming text message. The breath catches in my throat as I leap off the couch to grab my phone from the kitchen counter.
It’s Jordan. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Jordan: I’m sorry I walked away. Can we meet up tomorrow?
“Jordan wants to get together tomorrow,” I say, returning to the couch to sit next to Stacey. She pulls my hair off my neck and pats my shoulder. “What should I tell him?”
“You owe him an explanation, Reggie. And you should do it here so he can meet his son.” She’s right. His reaction in the grocery store won’t hold a candle to the one he’ll have here. My stomach twists into knots when I send off a reply.
Me: Meet me at my place, 6 p.m.? I want you to meet Micah. I’ll cook dinner.
One breath passes. Two.
Jordan: K.
Nervous doesn’t begin to describe how I’m feeling. How sick. Like, quite literally, I could throw up right now from how my stomach is pitching and rolling. I’m never going to be able to sleep tonight, and I have no idea how I’m going to make it through work tomorrow.
