by Peter Styles
“I…I don’t think we have time to make sandwiches every day. And you’d have to figure out a supplier for everything outside of the bread, which could get confusing to keep track of,” Stephen manages, obviously still gloomy but allowing himself to be distracted by her question.
“You’re probably right,” she says quickly, “It was just a thought. You know, you’ve always mentioned that certain times of day call for different batches—maybe we should draw up a spreadsheet, just in case we ever grow and get more help.”
“I guess.”
The mood is officially soured. Nothing Jen says seems to pull Stephen out of his funk. Eventually, the macaroons are done and Jen insists on sending the man home with a portion of the pastries made that day. She walks him to his truck and Rowan stays in the kitchen, pretending to clean up. He can hear the front door close and he holds his breath, knowing what comes next.
“Ro.”
“Not now, Jen.”
She pauses, leaning against the entryway to the kitchen. She doesn’t speak again, watching him rinse a bowl, until he gives in, sighing. He turns to her and raises his brows to let her know he’s listening.
“You know, he’s not a bad guy. I know he brings up bad memories—”
“Yeah, no shit,” Rowan says sharply, immediately regretting his tone. It’s not her fault. “I didn’t expect him to be here. I didn’t expect to talk about that, either.”
“I get it,” Jen says carefully, “I really should have told you. I just know you’re stubborn and if I’d told you, you probably would have disappeared. I just wanted to show you he’s not as bad as you think he is. I didn’t…expect for this to happen, either.”
It’s not quite an apology. He doesn’t need one, though. They’re close enough that he understands why she didn’t say anything and he knows the unwelcome memories are just that—intruders in an otherwise average conversation.
“Don’t worry,” Rowan says, sighing as he leans against the sink. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I think Mom and Dad are back,” Jen realizes, turning towards the door. The sound of a truck rolling against gravel echoes in the distance.
“I’m not making dinner,” Rowan jokes, smiling. Jen smiles back.
It doesn’t change what happened, but it makes it just a little bit better.
7
He stares at the plastic containers on his kitchen table, eyes burning with the effort of keeping them open. All he can hear are Rowan’s questions floating around his mind, the unimpressed and angry expression on the man’s face seared into his memory.
He would be lying if he hadn’t been interested to see what the new guy was all about. Jen had always been understanding; he just expected, somehow, that her cousin—he’s like a brother—would be the same. He couldn’t have been more wrong. From the very start, Rowan was the complete opposite. The man was cool and collected, always seeming to think more of himself than the other people around him. Rowan wasn’t necessarily stuck up; he certainly got along with customers well enough. It just seemed like any time he had to interact with Stephen, he acted cold and distant. Like Stephen had personally done something that offended him.
Going to Jen’s was the final straw. Despite his confusion—and hell, even annoyance—at Rowan’s bad attitude towards him, Stephen was soldiering through up until that point. Even the little fight at the bakery hadn’t been serious; he’d honestly just been frustrated at the man’s stubbornness and how he almost hurt himself. The moment they were together outside of work, though, things just seemed to go to shit. Despite Jen trying to help them warm up to each other—or maybe just trying to get Rowan to stop being a jerk—they still ended up in dangerous territory. Stephen talked about Melissa and Jordi, the two sore spots in his life, and Rowan somehow became angered by it. Stephen still doesn’t know what set the other man off; all he knows is the judgment he felt, the looks, the displeased questions—they all brought everything crashing back down on him, reminding him he was nothing more than a failure in everyone else’s eyes.
Stephen ends up leaving the pastries on his counter, snatching his keys back off the table and shrugging his jacket over his shoulders. There’s cash in his pocket and an open bar down the street, so he goes. He knows what he’ll find—the same faces, the same dirty corner, the same dim lighting and unhappy smell of late night customers shrouded in cigarette smoke. It’s the pit he crawled into years ago and it’s the pit he returns to.
A regular nods at him when he gets in. The bartender already knows his order, pausing after flipping over a glass to give Stephen the chance to object. He doesn’t. The glass is filled before him, honey—brown and bitter. He stares at the liquid for a moment before tipping the glass, throwing the burn down the back of his throat. The smoke in the bar starts to cling to his skin, prickling at his eyes, but he can’t bring himself to care.
“Drinking partner?”
He’s almost too tired to look at the speaker. As it happens, it’s a man Stephen doesn’t recognize. Probably a passerby, traveling through Oriole on the way to a big city. Someone staying the night at a motel before going back to the airport. He’s not unpleasant looking—in fact, he’s a bit too pleasant looking. Gray suit and tie, youthful face and golden blond hair. The look of someone who achieved success in his twenties and has been gliding by as the years pass.
“It’s a free bar,” Stephen replies, still in possession of enough faculties to be relatively polite. He’s not opposed to sitting next to someone. Talking, even. However angry or sad he is, he can never turn away human contact—especially when it’s with someone who knows nothing about his issues.
The man smiles and orders something, sliding his blazer off to throw it over one leg.“I’m Chris.”
Stephen does not laugh. He drowns his misplaced mirth in whiskey. Chris? Next he’s going to tell me he works in—
“I’m a small business owner. Marketing, web development..”
He does laugh then, somehow managing not to choke on his drink. The man looks pleased, as if they’re both entertained by the same thing, but Stephen doubts it. This man is what I would look like if I were a model man and husband, Stephen thinks, shaking his head.
“That must be nice.”
“It is. We, uh—we take a lot of famous clients. The company’s getting big enough that I can actually start taking time off, you know?” Chris smiles, knocking back some of his beer.
Stephen doesn’t answer. What would he say? I haven’t had a vacation since high school. He worked through college, then after to support Melissa and Jordi, and now he still works to help pay what scholarships can’t and keep the tiny townhouse he occupies. There’s not even enough money for him to buy real groceries some weeks.
“And where are you from, Chris the small business owner?” Stephen asks, feeling a faraway buzz start to emerge. He bolts down the last of his drink, raising a finger as the bartender walks his way.
“Seattle,” Chris says, turning to face Stephen more fully, “It’s a nice little place. Great views. What about you?”
“Here,” Stephen says, gesturing vaguely around him as if he’s talking about the air. “You’re just passing through or something?”
“Yeah. Had business,” Chris says, tapping his bottle softly. “Back to work tomorrow, unfortunately. You said you live here—where do you work?”
He almost says, Why would you assume I work? but he knows it would be rude and unnecessary. Chris doesn’t mean any harm. Yet.
“Bakery downtown. It’s a pretty popular local place.”
“Wow—oh,” Chris laughs, this time smiling inwardly as if Stephen said something else.
“What?” he’s too tired to be defensive. He just asks, bland.
“I, uh. Didn’t expect that. I mean, no offense, you just…look like you’d spend time chopping wood, not baking cakes,” Chris chuckles.
Like I haven’t heard that before.
“I work out.”
“Yeah, I didn’t miss
that,” Chris laughs.
The conversation is slowly devolving. Stephen turns back to his drink, trying to ignore the sourness on his tongue. He feels like this is just a bad replay of every failed attempt from a stranger to flirt. It’s not like he’s dead set on being alone for the rest of his life; in fact, there’s nothing he’d like better than to have a relationship. A chance to do things right. It’s just that everything in his life seems to be wrong and all of the meetups and chats he’s ever had have followed that same theme.
“So, you, um…have family around here?”
Rookie question, Chris, Stephen thinks, milling a swig of whiskey around his mouth.
“Not really,” Stephen answers. “Kid’s off at college.”
Maybe he’s asking for it, not mentioning Melissa. He just isn’t in the mood; it feels good to leave that part of his sordid history in the dark. This stranger doesn’t need to know anything, especially the fact that he’s a divorcee.
“Oh. Just you, huh? That must get boring.”
“Sure. I keep busy. Work.”
He knows his answers are getting shorter and shorter, fueled by some sort of heavy gloom that weighs on his shoulders. He can’t believe Chris hasn’t caught onto it yet. Usually at this point, people give up. He wonders for a tiny, hopeful second, if this time will be different.
Chris’s hand inches toward him stealthily along the bar, making some nonsense move that’s probably meant to be an innocent excuse.
“Well, you know, I’m just here for the night…”
The rest of Chris’s words die in Stephen’s ear. There’s a ring on the man’s finger. A ring.
Stephen shuts down almost immediately. He doesn’t know the context, sure, but it’s most definitely a sign of some sort of committed relationship. The way it shines in the light is more truthful than anything else Stephen has dealt with today. It’s real, expensive metal.
At first, Stephen is angry. Would he have just pretended? Does he do this often? Did he actually care about my answers to his questions? The crushing sorrow interrupts his inner monologue too quickly after that, reminding him that he’s being stupid. You’re not worth someone’s full attention. Or even their loyalty. What did you expect? That some guy would actually come up to you, wanting something real? The voice chews away at him from within and he’s left sitting at the bar, glass warming in his hand.
“You have fun,” Stephen says evenly, downing the last bits of his whiskey, the world muffled around him, “and a safe trip.”
He’s still walking easily when he heads into another bar two minutes away, nursing his bruised ego and bad mood on a different chair with a different glass. It’s still whiskey, though, because now he’s determined to get plastered. Three hours and two other places later, his heart no longer aches and he achieves his goal.
He doesn’t sleep. He gets kicked from the last bar at almost three in the morning and he somehow ends up with a case of beer, keying at his door to get it open. He blows through too much before he stops, staring at the walls of his room before getting up to shower. He’d never show up to work dirty and unkempt, no matter how bad his state of mind is. He even thinks to shove a cinnamon roll—leftover from Saturday’s batch—into his mouth before he leaves. He doesn’t want to drive, sure it’s a bad idea, and besides it’s only six-thirty in the morning. He starts to walk. It’ll take him a while to get to work, but he should be there right when Jen and Rowan show up.
It's on his way that he realizes why he’s been in such a shitty mood. Of course it’s a stupid app that reminds him. The notification pings cheerily, barely startling him out of his black fog, and he stares at the words. Melissa’s birthday. He feels an insurmountable miasma of emotions: joy, resentment, guilt, self-hatred. He almost can’t believe he forgot. Part of him wonders if he just pretended he’d forgot, his drunk mind pushing the thought away until it was hidden behind so much of his late-night drinking.
He texts her. A simple happy birthday, no emojis or alternate motives implied. He waits, walking for ten minutes, checking his phone reflexively. He knows how dumb it is to be waiting for a reply but he can’t help it. Melissa’s birthday, like so many little milestones in his life, is like clockwork. Always there. Reliable. No matter how she feels about him at any given time, the birthday is just a fact. He keeps checking his phone as he walks, waiting.
He gets to the bakery before seven, wondering if he should go in and get started. He’s about to open the door when he hears a car pull up—he turns to see Jen wave, still clearly half asleep, and then Rowan gets out and the car pulls away.
What?
“You’re early,” Rowan notes, an eyebrow arched. He’s pulling a key from his pocket. “Jen’s going to go back for a few hours; she’s feeling like she’s got a cold today…”
The man trails off and Stephen blinks, not sure what’s changed. He takes the silence as a chance to scrutinize Rowan. He’s slightly shorter than Stephen, a little leaner, his hair chocolate brown and just a little wavy. He always looks a little too neat for his clothes—as if he’s meant to be wearing a suit and tie. From the little that Jen has mentioned, it would make sense. The thing that really makes Stephen curious, though, is the man’s eyes. They’re the same honey color as his cousin’s but there’s something more gold in their depths. They look liquid. It makes Stephen want to lean in just a little, to pick apart the colors and flecks—
“Are you drunk?” Rowan hisses, suddenly throwing the door open and yanking Stephen inside. The motion is disconcerting.
“Why di—”
“I can’t believe you’re drunk,” Rowan mutters, practically slamming his keys onto the small back table before he rips his jacket off, yanking an apron from its hook. Stephen raises his eyebrows, cemented in place. The other man is like a force of nature. “No, you know what—I can believe—”
“I’m not drunk,” Stephen says quietly even though he knows it’s half true. “I…didn’t get to sleep it off; I had a late night—”
“Yeah, great, a late night. So I’m basically on my own today. Or most days, really. God.”
“Hey. I never come to work fucked up,” Stephen says, aware of the irony. He starts pulling an apron on, frustrated and tired, eyes stinging. Shit. Not now. He checks his phone, not even sure what he’s expecting.
“What? Do you have something more important to do? By all means,” Rowan snaps, noticing the move, “it’s not like you’d be much help here, anyway. Other than flirting with everyone who walks in the door. Like that’s actually useful.”
“Stop,” Stephen says, not really able to put much force behind the word. He doesn’t care. Nothing really touches him right now; not in his half-buzzed state. The alcohol is wearing off quickly, its numbing effect rapidly dissipating.
“Stop what? Jesus. You know, I’ve told Jen about this. That you’re just one misstep away from screwing up everything. This is our family—our—”
“Stop,” Stephen repeats, barely hearing anything anymore. He’s not sure if he’s talking to Rowan or himself. Whatever the case, his pleas don’t work.
Something hot touches his face and he flinches.
“Are you—” Rowan starts, shock clear in his voice.
I’m fucking crying, Stephen realizes, angry at the betrayal by his stupid body. Rowan is frozen in motion, his arms wavering above a bag of flour. He looks both appalled and guilty. At least he shut up, Stephen thinks distantly. He has the absurd desire to laugh. It bubbles up in his throat and comes out in a choked sob, the result making him horrified.
“Shit,” Rowan says, somehow voicing both of their feelings, and then he yanks a chair from the corner and pushes Stephen into it, almost hesitant to touch the man. “What—why are you—”
“It’s Melissa’s birthday,” Stephen says. It’s not what he planned on saying but it somehow spills from his mouth, unwanted and blunt. That’s not it, though, he wants to say. It’s more. “I texted her, and she didn’t even respond. I feel like I’ve ruined
…” He stops, worried that he’ll start crying again.
Rowan looks at him uneasily and something in his eyes tells Stephen the man already knows his story. Rowan moves away, grabbing a coffee mug from the dish rack before filling it with coffee. He grabs a croissant from the display case, shoving the items into Stephen’s hands.
“Eat.”
Stephen stares back up at Rowan, confused and withdrawn.
“Okay, fine. Let’s do this drunk,” Rowan sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Stephen. When did you text her?”
Stephen pulls out his phone and checks. “About 6:45 this morning.”
“And where does Melissa live?”
“Too far away for me to visit,” Stephen says, not sure what the man means. “I don’t—”
“Okay. So, what? A plane trip? All-day driving?”
“Driving, usually.”
Rowan looks intense, like he is trying to make a point. “Right. So she’s probably not even in our time zone, huh?”
Stephen pauses, fishing for words, staring down at the coffee in his hand. Is she?
“I…”
“So you sent her a text at the butt-crack of dawn here,” Rowan continues, “and you—what? Think she hates you all of a sudden? She probably isn’t even awake yet. I’m assuming that you’re still drunk and not thinking clearly.”
“I’m not that drunk,” Stephen mumbles, even as he feels the dread in his chest dissolving a small amount. He bites into the croissant, suddenly famished. “You’re trying to tell me my ex-wife doesn’t hate me?”
“I mean, if Jen says she doesn’t,” Rowan points out, crossing his arms. “Listen…I’m sure you have issues but that’s no reason to go out and poison yourself every night.”
“It’s not every night. And I don’t—”
“You do,” Rowan says firmly, unwavering, “and you know what that means. You ever want to see your daughter get married?”
