That’s the moment I should have canceled Monday and stayed in bed. I could have let Nathan climb on top of me, show how much we’ve missed each other, and hide from the day together.
But I was unwise and naïve, thinking Monday couldn’t royally fuck me.
* * *
“CouldI get another vodka and diet coke, please?”
When you’re not allowed to cry to deal with your issues, alcohol is the next best thing. I never thought I’d be a person who wanted to get drunk alone but having no skating partner for eight weeks will do that to a girl.
The bartender puts a new coaster in front of me and places my drink on top of it. Muttering a quiet “Thank you,” I bring the straw to my lips, eyes shutting tight when I get a mouthful of unmixed vodka.
Eight weeks. The worst bit? I’m not even worried about how good he’ll be in eight weeks; I’m concerned about myself. I’m worried about my new aversions to lifts and my ability to keep up with him. Aaron could take a year out; I can’t imagine him being anything short of spectacular when he gets back.
Nationals is eight weeks from now and I have no idea if we’ll be good enough to compete, and it fucking terrifies me. Aaron isn’t picking up my calls and he didn’t show up to practice, even just to talk, so that’sgreat.
Nate calling to say he’s not allowed to play until Aaron could skate was the final straw, and the second the call ended, I requested an Uber.
I told Brin I was going to Simone’s for extra practice, but what I did was go to the dive bar two blocks away from Simone’s.
I’ve been minding my own business for about an hour, and I’ve had no problems, but the group of guys a few seats away have been getting louder and more obnoxious, sip by sip.
Each time they get up to go to the bathroom, they take a seat closer to me when they return. Bit by bit, they’ve ended up right next to me.
Smelling their desperation, I throw back the rest of my drink and request my bill.
“Lemme buy you a drink, darlin’,” the one closest slurs, leaning toward me. “You look lonely.”
“No, thank you.” I’m not too nice, not too rude. Like every women-blaming propaganda piece has ever told me about dealing with intrusive drunk men. “I’m leaving now.”
“Don’t go yet. The fun is just star—”
“You ready to go, baby?” I recognize the voice before I see him, and the relief I feel when Russ’s baby face is looking back at me when I look up is overwhelming. Bending to grab my duffle bag from the floor, he slings it over his shoulder, holding out a hand to me. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
“…That’s okay…muffin,” I say, accepting his hand. Putting some bills on the bar, I jump down from my stool, not realizing how drunk I am, until my feet hit the floor.
Unsurprisingly, the drunk guys don’t utter another word. Russ’s size is intimidating; I imagine he’d have no issues if they were causing trouble.
Holding open the door, the cool November breeze hits me as I walk under his arm, out into the street. “Well, that was weird.”
“Sorry, I’m Russ. We met a few weeks ago at the icebreaker thing. I’m on the hockey team.”
“I know who you are, Russ.”
The tips of his ears go pink. “Those guys are awful. They’re always in there, drinking and harassing people. I heard you say you were leaving and I didn’t want them to give you any trouble.”
“I appreciate it, honestly, I do.”
The tips of his ears go from pink to red as he mumbles, “You’re welcome,” quietly.
“I need to request my ride.”
“There’s a coffee shop right around the corner. I can wait with you if you like? I’d offer you a ride, but I usually run home.”
“You’re welcome to join me, but don’t feel like you have to.”
Turning the corner, Café Kileyis quiet, with only a few people eating and drinking. We take a seat at one of the outdoor tables and order two coffees.
“So, Russ. What motivated you to spend your Monday evening in a bar alone when you’re underage and live miles away?” I clasp my hands together, leaning forward to rest my elbows on the table like I’m interrogating him.