If Only (25 page)

During a lull in the service, Daniel catches me reading in a quiet corner of the bar.

“What’s that?” He peers over my shoulder. “Shakespeare, aye?”

“Aye.
Comedy of Errors.
Do you study literature?”

Daniel waves a hand. “Nah. I’m Welsh. They make us memorize all the plays in secondary school. We aren’t allowed to enter university if we can’t quote the bard on a whim.”

“I knew it!” I mock. “You must think me so quaint for having to actually read the play rather than pull it from the depths of my memory.”

“I do.”

“So, does that mean you are
not
a literature major?”

He shakes his head. “Philosophy,” he says, with a raised eyebrow.

“Philosophy? What do you do with a degree in philosophy?”

“I don’t know,” he considers. “Philosophize, I guess.” He smiles his crooked, knowing grin, and it’s hard not to smile back at him.

“And is the Blue Lantern suitable grounds for philosophizing?”

He laughs. “The best. I promise you, by the end of the evening, you will learn a lesson in philosophy from a patron of the bar.”

I feel a wager coming on.

“Care to make it interesting?” I ask.

“I’m interested.”

Suddenly Elaina is beside Daniel. “What are we making interesting?” Her eyes are wide with glee.

“Okay,” he starts. “I say we base this on quality rather than quantity. Whoever has the best nugget of philosophical wisdom or advice by night’s end wins a free pint.”

I look at Elaina who crinkles up her nose.

“I agree with Elaina. That’s no prize. I have a free pint in my hand right now.”

Daniel thinks for a moment before making a new proposal.

“Fine, whoever wins does
not
have to do table cleanup at the end of the night.”

Elaina nods at me, and I nod at Daniel. “We will accept your deal, sir. Let the philosophy games begin, and may the number of chatty drunks be ever in your favor!”

The pub closes at two a.m. When Elaina locks the door behind the last patron, it’s as if all three of us suddenly realize our exhaustion. Daniel is pouring pints and motioning for me and Elaina to come join him at the bar. Tonight, as with most Saturdays I assume, the place was busy and loud. As someone who’s been a patron far longer than an employee, I much prefer the sitting and socializing to the pouring and cleaning. But tips were good, and I only had to re-pour three out of most likely three-hundred pints. Probably not that much, but it felt like a lot.

“Ladies,” Daniel says, sliding us each a pint. “Thank you for your hard work this evening. In order to determine which two of the three of us are going to take care of all the tables tonight, it’s time to share what we’ve found.”

Elaina takes a sip of her lager and scowls. “My customers were shite tonight, but I can teach you a lesson. Never tell a patron who is flirting like an arse that you have a boyfriend, or he will go to the cute American bartender who can only pour lagers.”

“I did get great tips tonight,” I admit. “Thanks for sending a few my way.”

“You owe me at least ten quid,” she says.

I raise my eyebrows. “Duncan or arsehole tips? You have to choose.”

“Fine. I choose the boy, but do not tell him. He will start thinking crazy things.”

Daniel interrupts. “Ladies, I think we’ve established that Elaina did learn something this evening. I’m not sure it’s the best nugget, though. Jordan, what did you come up with?”

I smile. “Oh, I think I have a good one. This one comes from a local.”

He purses his lips. “How do you know it’s a local?”

“Um, let’s say she was older than your average student.”

“How much older?” Elaina asks.

“I don’t know, but she showed me a picture of her daughter who looks almost my age. Does that help?”

They both laugh.

“Let me finish. I have to admit I do find her words to be wise indeed.” I start to laugh as I say it. Elaina pushes my shoulder.

“Hey! Don’t rush philosophy. This is an important little nugget of wisdom, though I’m not sure Daniel will relate.” I look at him, but he’s clearly not fazed. “I only served her one pint, so I’m not sure what provoked her to say this, but after only a few sips, she leaned over the bar and motioned for me to come closer. In the thickest Scottish brogue I’ve heard yet, she said, ‘Oh, lass. I don’t recommend wearing a wee thong backwards. The place it’s lodged itself now is something dreadful!’”

Daniel backs away from the bar, his hands up in surrender.

“You win. I’m out. I’m off to pour whisky in my eyes to try to burn away the image you’ve given me.”

“Did I mention she was a large woman?”

Elaina can’t contain herself, which I love, because when she really gets to laughing, she snorts.

I yell down to the end of the bar where Daniel is stacking glasses. “You’re not going to share yours? What if it’s better than mine?”

“You win!” he calls back, not turning to face me, and I fear I may have scarred him irreparably.

“All right then, I’ll finish up back here, and you two can get going on those tables.” I throw a wet rag at him, and it hits him square on the back of the neck. I wait for a moment to see if he will retaliate, but he doesn’t. Instead, he picks up the rag in one hand, his pint in the other. Back still to me, he raises the pint in a gesture of “cheers” before heading out to the tables to help Elaina.

An hour later, when I can barely keep my eyes open and it’s finally time to go home, Elaina and I find one of the few remaining taxis that wait around for the after-pub crowd, which now includes me. We say our good-byes to Daniel, who lives in town and gets a ride regularly from one of the cooks.

“He’s not bad, you know,” Elaina says as the taxi starts to pull away.

“I know,” I say. She means Daniel. “But I can’t, Elaina. I can’t be with one person because the person I want doesn’t want me. Already tried that.”

She sighs but doesn’t say anything. Instead she reaches her hand across the seat and wraps her fingers around mine.

“I’m fine.” I try to persuade her. She squeezes my hand, so instead I admit, “I will be.”

When my alarm goes off the next morning, I’m disoriented. It’s still dark out, and according to my clock, I’ve only been asleep for an hour. And it’s Sunday. I press what I think is my snooze button on my phone and then realize what I’ve done. I’ve hung up on Sam. SAM!

I dial her back as quickly as I hung up on her.

“Brooks! What the hell? You’ve been ditching me for a week now!”

She’s right, and I don’t lie to her. “I’m sorry.” Then I look at my clock. I’ve barely been asleep for forty minutes. “Is this my punishment, waking me in middle of the night?”

“Yes, actually. It is. I miss the shit out of you and can’t stay mad at you, so the least I can do is wake your Scottish ass in the middle of the night. Did I wake you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“I’ve only been asleep for about three-quarters of an hour, so you got me right when the heavy sleep hit. Well played.” Not that she could have known. It’s been so long since we’ve done anything other than text, I’ve hardly told her anything about my life, let alone that I started a new job. Guilt washes over me. I know nothing about her life, either.

“Hot night, I take it then?”

I sigh. I’m not going to sleep for a long, long time now. I tell her everything she’s missed from New Year’s Eve up through tonight.

“Well, I guess that’s all of it.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds.

“Damn, Brooks. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I’ll figure my shit out, eventually.”

“No.” Something in her voice changes. “I mean,
I’m
sorry.”

“I don’t think I follow.”

“Brooks, I pushed you into this, this whole new-you thing, this whole re-lose your virginity thing. I thought you could have this exotic year where you did things you’d never do back home, where you could reinvent yourself, and I don’t know. I thought I knew how to make you happy, and I screwed up because you’re halfway done and you’re fucking miserable. And I woke you on purpose at four a.m.”

She’s so far away, but I can picture us in our tiny room in the dorm, her lying on the top bunk pouring all of this out without having to look at me because that’s the only way she won’t cry. But now, with the safety of thousands of miles between us and no chance of us being eye to eye, I hear her breathe back tears.

“Sam? Shit, Sam. Are you crying?”

I don’t hear anything, and I’m scared the connection is lost. I call to her again. “Sam?”

“You know I don’t fucking cry, Brooks.”

She waits for me to disagree, but I don’t give her the satisfaction.

“Fine,” she continues. “One time. But you were leaving me for a year. Now I’m just fucking pissed that I’m quite possibly the worst best friend you could have chosen.”

I wait for her to continue.

“I didn’t just sleep with Eddie. I’ve been dating him for almost five months.”

There is total silence as she waits for me to make the connection. I don’t think she’s breathing. I can’t help but laugh when I say his name.

“Eddie? The bartender?” I tease more than taunt. “You are dating Eddie the bartender?”

I’m not judging Eddie for where he works. Clearly pub-type establishments are well-known in these parts too, as are bartenders. I think
the bartender
might be Eddie’s last name.

“Yes,” she says quietly. “Eddie the bartender.”

As it sinks in, I realize it’s not so funny. I’ve been trying to be who I thought Sam was, to do what I thought made her happy. “Eddie the bartender who you had a one-night stand with days after breaking up with James? Eddie the bartender, the fling that made me think
you
could separate love from sex? That Eddie the bartender?”

“I’m full of shit, Brooks. There. I said it. I am full of shit when it comes to guys. I made it seem like it was a fling with him, but the truth is I liked him from the minute our conversation morphed from asking for a cheap-ass beer to talking about our affinity for John Hughes movies, which most definitely happened before I slept with him.”

I yawn, fighting to stay lucid. What I can’t do is stay mad at her. How can I fault her for finding what I’ve been wanting?

“So you are apologizing to me for liking a guy before sleeping with him and because now you are dating him? Am I hearing you correctly?” My eyes are so heavy.

She groans in mild exasperation. “
No
, dammit. I’m apologizing because I made you think I was something I wasn’t. I broke up with James because something was missing. Things happened with Eddie because something was there that I didn’t know I wanted. Don’t get me wrong. The sex is great, but I feel like shit because I sent you there with a false sense of what your purpose was.”

I have purpose?

“Yes,” she says, answering my thought. “You
do
have a purpose, but it’s not for me to tell you what it is. I think your parents had the right idea, giving you this year to figure your shit out.”

“That’s only half true. They are giving me a year to figure out that I want to be a teacher.”

We both laugh, knowing that’s the decision both of them would love me to come home with.

“Is that what you want?” she asks, a question I don’t think either of my parents has asked.

“I want to figure out what makes me happy.”

“Then figure it out.”

She makes it sound so simple.

“What if I find out I wasted their time and money? What if I wasted
my
time playing it safe with a major because I knew I’d be good at it?”

“You’ll never know. Not until you admit to yourself what you want. Stop trying to fit into whatever mold you think everyone wants you to fit in. That includes me. Figure your shit out, and then go after it.”

I smile through my exhaustion, knowing at least one decision I’ve made since coming here is mine and mine alone, but it’s the one thing I’ve been avoiding telling her for over a week.

“I’m staying, until August.” She’s going to hate me.

“I know.”

She knows? Is that why she called, to let me sweat it out for the whole conversation, already knowing what I’ve been too scared to say?

“You know? But how?”

“I called your mom a couple of days ago. I was worried because we hadn’t spoken in so long and wanted to make sure you were okay, that you weren’t avoiding me. She was afraid you were and that she knew why. So she told me.”

Please don’t ask me what I think you are going to ask me.

“Were you? Avoiding me?” she asks.

There’s no point in anything but honesty. “Yes. I was afraid you’d hate me.”

“Do you really see me as that selfish? Shit, Brooks. I’m envious of what you are doing over there, but I’d never begrudge you one damn minute of it. You got it?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now go to sleep. It’s got to be almost five a.m. for you.”

Shit. It is. “Good night,” I say through what is the largest yawn in existence. “Or, I guess, good morning.”

“Good morning,” Sam says. “And good days and future nights to you after that.”

Smiling, I end the call, laughing that Sam can still shock me after I thought I knew her so well. Perhaps I need to pay better attention to the people I think I know.

Valentine’s Day

“Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there?”

E. M. Forster

A Room with a View

Chapter Twenty-three

Stepping out from behind the bar, I decide to wipe down the empty tables, which are many because it’s only two p.m. But it’s two p.m. on Valentine’s Day, which means the drunk, the lonely, and most likely the horny will be entering soon.

“Hand it over.” It would sound like a command if the rhythmic lilt of his accent wasn’t so lovely.

I turn around to face Daniel, hand outstretched, waiting for me to give him what he’s asking for.

“No,” I say. “I need it.”

He grabs the rag from my hand.

“Jordan. You’ve wiped down the bar, and the tables, and then the bar and the tables again, and no one has had the chance to dirty them yet. Relax. It’s just a class assignment.”