by Alexis Angel
“Oh, no,” Lana says. “It’s some other people. I may have to go somewhere else.”
“Okay.”
I don’t think Lana knows why I’m talking to her. She’s not volunteering anything else, but she looks ready to answer more questions.
“Why doesn’t she like me?”
The question just escapes from me. And seeing the confusion on Lana’s face makes me regret not guarding it better.
Fuck, I fucking fucked up.
I look away, and I see Henry’s pouring drinks like a boss, being a little showboaty, but the patrons are enjoying it.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I’m snapped back from Henry’s show by Lana’s response. Before I can get back to her, she continues.
“She’s been...how do I put this...she thinks you don’t like her, that you’re not interested.”
“What?”
Like really. What the fuck.
Lana looks at me earnestly and ignores a fresh text message on her phone.
“Kirk, everything she’s doing is based on how she thinks you feel about her. Is it true you don’t like her?”
“I don’t even know what to say to that.”
Lana lets out a mild chuckle. “A rarity for you.”
“Fucking tell me about it! This is all new territory. I don’t know why she would think that.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not going to go into all that myself, but she’s definitely thinking it.”
I have a new plan for tonight: leave Henry behind the bar and clear up all this confusion immediately.
“There’s no chance she’s showing up anywhere tonight? Do you think she wants to talk to me?”
“She certainly does want to talk to you, whether she realizes it or not, but she’s in New York. She’s in quite a state there. So no, I don’t think she’ll be around San Francisco tonight.”
Em’s thousands of miles away, but for some reason, my old razor-sharp, strategic instincts are awakened for the first time in weeks. I look at the crowd, now expanding and growing impatient around the bar.
“What about Miranda?” Lana’s glaring at me now, like she just remembered some horrible thing I did.
“What about her? I haven’t...oh, fuck. Did she tell you we’re back together?”
“That’s who we heard it from, I guess. You’re not?”
“Fuck no. You’ll have to believe me on this, but no, we’re definitely not. That’s not possible. We’re broken up, anyway, but she also manipulated Emily at my barbecue. She did everything in her power to make sure Emily got as drunk as possible.”
“Oh.” Lana looks rightfully disturbed, and I feel a little bad for telling her that so plainly.
“That’s the origin of, well, really everything that’s gone so fucking wrong. The good news is that things are clearer now, thanks to you. I have a plan...but I can’t make it happen alone.”
Kirk
I click the resistance on the stair-stepper up until it’s maxed out. I keep stepping and going hard. But it’s not enough anymore.
I want to clear my mind through home exercise-machine-induced meditation, but shit’s just too much of a muddled mess.
The strangest goddamn thing about it is that I don’t have the television on, I’m not listening to anything, and it’s completely silent. But I cannot clear my fucking head. That uncertainty won’t leave me alone.
For once, I don’t see any way forward. When my doorbell buzzes, I let out a frustrated growl.
What next, really? I try to do the considerate thing of wiping some sweat away and fixing my hair with my hands on my way to answer the door, although I have no idea who the fuck it could possibly be.
By the time I get to the front door, I figure that whoever it was is gone by now. I swing open the door to a surreal sight: my dad, dressed in what he would consider his Sunday best. He’s standing still and patient, cradling a bottle of Macallan in his left arm.
“Is that a twelve-year Macallan you’re holding?” I know damn well that it’s a bottle of good scotch, but fuck, everything’s coming so fast from every direction these days. I’m just trying to think of things to say so I can hold it together.
“I know you fuckin’ know what it is, Kirk. It says it right on the label.”
He would never usually talk to me completely honestly like that either. This is the first time in weeks, at least, that I can say that something’s changing for the better. He isn’t inviting himself in either, leaving that part up to me.
“Are you ready to open that yet or what?” I want to tell my father that we should go inside already.
He’s still holding the bottle precariously, but really, I just want to enjoy this moment. I don’t have many moments like it these days.
“Why don’t you come in?” I’m staying monotone, trying not to seem too emotional. “I have a couple good whiskey glasses.”
“I’m sure you do.” The old man exhales a tiny bit. He’s meaning what he says.
I lead my father wordlessly into the house and into the kitchen, trying to think about why he’s here. An unannounced visit isn’t his style, but apologizing isn’t either. The scotch implies an apology, but there must be more than that.
I don’t even turn around to look at my dad until we’re in the kitchen and I have two suitable glasses in my hand. He’s still holding the bottle as I place the glasses on the kitchen table. He holds the bottle out to me.
“Not seeing you, not talking to you, I couldn’t let it go on like this any longer.”
I see softness around the old man’s eyes, an aura of tears held back. I never thought I’d see the day, but it doesn’t last long. He’s back to his stoic self by the time I’m opening the bottle.
I pour two glasses neat, and we both sit at the table in unison.
“Did you want some water?” I know I’m distracted since I somehow failed to consider this, but my dad’s already sipping his scotch.
He’s got a lot on his mind as well, but I’m letting him decide when and how he wants to acknowledge it.
“No, you did it right.”
“Did I?”
My father lets out a heavy sigh and considers his glass.
“When I think about your past, Kirk, I can’t think of any missteps—nothing major at least.”
“Are you sure you’re remembering correctly?” It’s a joke, because I’m at a loss for anything real to say. He wisely ignores it.
“I talk to my friends around the neighborhood, people my age mostly. You should hear some of the shit about their kids and their messy lives. I’m afraid to talk about you. I don’t want to rub it in their faces, you know, about your business success.”
Well, shit, still just about business. Maybe nothing’s changed at all.
“Business success,” I repeat back, trying to be subtly sarcastic.
“I see your good decisions there. I’m prouder than I could ever say. Your personal life, your love life—that’s a different story. You don’t seem to be able to commit to any woman. And from what I’ve seen, you don’t try.”
These are not new complaints, and I’m ready for him to disparage Emily somehow. Some apology.
“Dad...”
“Until now.”
It doesn’t hit me right away. Along with him admitting to being proud, this is turning into a unique type of visit from the old man indeed.
“I don’t know, Dad. I’m not sure about anything.”
My father downs the rest of his scotch, and I can tell that it’s story time from him.
“When I was first seeing your mother, it didn’t go over so well with my parents. Did you know that?”
“I...didn’t.”
“She’s from LA, as you probably do know. My parents, being from Susanville, were already suspicious. Your mother was also an actress. Did you know that?”
“I had no idea.” I really didn’t. I’m dumbfounded already, and all I can do is keep listening.
“She was in a
couple commercials that aired statewide, and my parents were not happy about that. Within a couple months of moving to the Bay Area, she was managing a restaurant...”
“I do know that.”
“...I know. You get it from somewhere. But I would go to visit her, and we would go out after she was finished. At work, even on dates with me, she flirted with everyone. She could charm the shit out of any man, any person, and she was never close to being shy. She laughed at everyone’s jokes—that gorgeous, beautiful laugh she has—and she had her own jokes, really blue stuff about...you know, oral sex, stuff like that.”
I can’t repress a laugh.
“You’re talking about Mom?”
“She would do anything, say anything in front of people she barely knew. She liked to drink.”
“Well...so what?”
“My father...”
“Grandpa Eugene.”
“Right. He gave me an ultimatum, like the one I gave you. Except he threatened to cut me out completely. No contact. That’s what he demanded. I tried to convince myself she wasn’t right for me. But everything about her, even the flirting, that’s why I loved her. That’s why I love her still—because of everything about her. She was worth fighting for.”
“So you chose her.”
“Forty years ago, almost. That’s when my life began. Every time I look at her, or look at you or your brother or your sister, it becomes crystal clear that it was the best decision of my life. Now that I see you fighting for Emily, I want you to make the right decision.”
This is what I needed from my father. Not his blessing or his permission, but for him to bring me clarity the way only he knows how. I feel all the sad, uncertain energy swiftly draining away.
Suddenly, everything is clear.
“I will, Dad.”
Emily
The barista at the enormous coffee shop by my hotel keeps mentioning this bar, the Aviary. He says I just have to see it for myself, that I need to experience drinking a glass of wine while looking at the view.
The problem is that the Aviary’s at the top of a skyscraper, and it’s the most overcast day imaginable. And I don’t even want to think about wine right now.
The other problem is that I’m in New York and I’m spending all my time on my laptop, drinking the same coffee I can get anywhere else. At least at this coffee shop there’s always a ton of other people doing the exact same thing, and it’s open until midnight. It honestly beats the bar in the lobby of my hotel, which is like ninety percent tourists every night.
My newsletter is going out regularly over the free Wi-Fi. But after a couple days of this, I tell myself that I’ve had enough with being productive.
After finally emerging from my hotel after a super late breakfast, I traipse over to Seventh Avenue and grab a taxi going south. I end up at the Pegu Club, which is more of a bar, on Houston.
The place isn’t big, but there are quite a few hot, stylishly scruffy, and seemingly unemployed guys hanging around—most of them drinking coffee at this hour. It’s weird, but I have no interest in talking to any of them.
The notion of bringing my laptop down here to do my newsletter strikes me, but shit, I can’t keep going down that road, as much as talking to and hearing from my readers helps. It’s time to get outside into the daylight, back into the world.
I leave and start walking downtown, not really thinking about much and doing some half-conscious window shopping in Soho, checking my phone every few minutes for whatever reason.
Screw it, I need to stop...whatever this is.
I walk into some random bar on Broome Street. There is low lighting, leather upholstered furniture, a fake fireplace, shelves of books lining the walls...and one man sitting at the bar—one very good-looking man in a high-end tailored suit. I’m talking a Freeway-caliber suit at the very least.
I size him up as I approach the bar, slowly. He’s young, but much more put-together than those dudes up at Pegu Club. In case anyone’s getting nervous that I’m mentioning Freeway, I’m guessing that this guy’s underwear choices are agreeably conventional.
The guy turns around, and I stop walking. His face is strikingly handsome and just a bit rugged.
Then he smiles. Nothing overwhelming, just a warm, friendly smile that’s also hot as hell.
But I feel nothing. I smile back politely, turn around, and leave.
Luckily, there’s a taxi barreling down the street that I’m able to get so I can go back up to where I’m staying in Midtown and get back to doing the only thing I seem to enjoy these days.
As soon as I get back to my room, I set up my laptop and start spilling my guts to my readers. Yeah, I know I said I needed to get out in the world, but I can’t.
Forget going to the coffee shop and talking to the barista and dealing with all the other bullshit. Something about sitting at the little desk in my hotel room and typing is helping me understand what’s bothering me.
I can write in my newsletter what I can’t even admit to myself.
That this is all about WineBar.
Still.
The best part is not sending this stuff out into the void. The best part is hearing back from my readers, knowing that I’m reaching people, hearing their thoughts, and getting their advice.
I wind up spending much of the day in my room, through the late afternoon, getting down my thoughts for new newsletter updates, continuing the dialog of what I really want to talk about.
After getting some of that out, I feel better. It’s still not amazing, but it’s an improvement over my time in New York so far.
Now maybe I can get the hell out of my room for a while. I decide to start with an elevator ride down to the lobby—small steps—and maybe a quick trip to the bar. I’ll probably be ready to get back to the newsletter after that.
I’m thankful to find the bar nice and empty when I get there. It’s a comfortable spot, and there’s not too many people. There’s low-key lighting and super nice, upmarket living room furniture instead of the usual crap you find in bars.
I don’t see a bartender, or anybody. I pick up a cocktail menu from the bar on my way to a crazy comfortable-looking sofa.
While I’m walking, I check my phone semiconsciously again. But this time, it starts ringing in my hand. It’s Lana. I pick up.
“Hey, Lana.”
“Hey, um, so are you okay?”
The way Lana asks sounds so catastrophic it starts to scare me.
“Yeah. Why? What’s going on? I’ve been in my room most of the day.”
“About that...I’ve been getting your newsletter.”
“Yes, that’s what I’m doing these days. What’s the problem? I don’t get it.”
“Really, Emily? You know what it is. I’ve never seen you like this. I’m worried.”
I finish walking to the sofa. I sit and immediately begin melting into the cushions.
“Oh my god, Lana, you would not believe how nice this couch is. You have to come visit.”
“Em, are you even listening? You can’t wallow like this. It’s unhealthy. It’s obvious to me, and I’m on the other side of the country.”
I take in the decor and look up at the understated lighting fixtures. I hear somebody walk in, but I really don’t care.
“Lana, I know you’re sick of hearing about WineBar, but I can’t just repress everything. The newsletter is helping me.”
I notice two guys sit down on two off-white accent chairs, facing each other near the bar. I can see that they’re dressed in suits, probably on a business trip, but I don’t look at them for long.
“The only way you’re going to resolve this is to call Kirk and really talk to him.”
There are more people coming in now—office workers, a couple tourists, and finally the bartender shows up.
“That ship has long sailed. I’ve been through this, both over the phone and in person. I got the clear message that enough is enough. He doesn’t want to hear from me.”
This feels
liberating to state so plainly. But as I say it, I realize how badly I want to be wrong.
“I don’t know, Em. Just maybe try to do something else with your time, something enjoyable.”
“Sure thing.”
Just as I’m hanging up, I spot one of the business dudes approaching. He has icy-blue eyes, a beautifully molded jaw, and he’s wearing a pinstripe suit. Like the guy in Soho, he’s a very fine specimen.
A blonde woman in a gold dress is scoping him out shamelessly from behind.
The guy in the pinstripe suit starts talking to me, shouting almost, when he’s still ten feet away.
“Hey! You look like you’re from here. I need some directions. Do you know the subway?”
I don’t fucking feel like dealing with this. I just want to get and leave, so I do.
Pinstripe suit guy, SoHo suit guy, the barista...all of it just reminds me of how much I miss Kirk.
When I get back to my hotel room, I look at my laptop. Now I don’t even feel like typing, and my vision’s becoming hazy with tears.
I’ve tried and tried to repress this, to deny it. But I can’t.
I’m not getting over WineBar anytime soon. And I don’t know what to do. All I can do is stand there and cry.
Kirk
“Tell me this is not where you meant when you said we should go out, is it, Tad?”
I’m somehow back at the same fucking dive bar, watching Tad scarf down popcorn. I’m letting him dictate my plans tonight since I pretty much have no clue about life anymore.
“No, of course not, man. What the fuck? I’m not that out of it.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
Tad tips a handful of popcorn into his maw. I’m not sure whether I admire his ability to eat like an absolute fucking pig in public or if I’m appalled.
“Pregaming.”
Right on cue, the handlebar-mustached bartender sets a shot and a pint of beer in front of Tad. He takes the shot without even looking at it, as if he were taking a sip of coffee while reading the paper.
“I could go for some coffee. That’s pregaming, technically.”
