Page 49 of Another Last Call
“We’re having beers tonight.”
“Um… okay.”
I stepped out of the way and he came inside, plunked himself on my couch, and put his feet up on the table.
“Nice place,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He passed me a beer as I joined him on the couch and I waited for a moment, thinking he was about to bring up some issue he had at work or something, but he just cracked his beer and opened one of the bags of chips.
“So, what’re we watching?”
Looking back, I had no idea what we watched. We drank the entire twelve pack and Big Tim passed out on my couch. The next morning, he asked if I wanted to go for coffee with a couple of guys, and suddenly I had a group of friends.
It was strange, but I felt more at peace that winter than I had for a long time. Since even before my dad had died.
So that was why it was the best winter. I was happy. I felt at home. I felt like I had a purpose.
It was the worst winter of my life because of Maggie.
Not because we were fighting or anything. I mean, we did, the same as any other people would in a situation like ours. Little fights, bickering over stupid things like the cost of reprinting menus or if we should hire someone to shovel the sidewalks rather than doing it ourselves.
For the record, I had voted in favour of hiring someone, but Maggie insisted she would shovel them herself since she lived there anyway. I’d finally just agreed with her, but the next time it snowed, I made sure to get to The Sea Glass before Annie so I could shovel the walks. There was no way Maggie was going to be awake in time to do it. Not when she was working the long hours and late nights that she was.
So we argued here and there, but nothing major.
No, it was the worst because I wanted the one woman I couldn’t have.
She didn’t want me. I knew that.
We couldn’t fuck. I knew that, too.
It was for the sake of our business, the business we’d been thrown into together. There were people relying on us.Wewere relying on us. Mixing sex into that was asking for disaster.
But fuck if that didn’t make me want her even more.
Even as busy as we were, she still found time to go up on that stage I’d built in the corner of the bar. When Hannah and I were both working and things were slow enough that she felt like she could leave things in our hands, she’d go upstairs and get her guitar, then settle in and play for a while.
Those nights were the hardest ones. Remembering to keep things professional was difficult when she was up there, eyes closed as she sang, her face warm and relaxed under the lights…
God, I wanted her.
But she didn’t want me. Not like that.
It was one of those nights, early in the spring, when everything changed. The snow wasn’t quite melting yet, but it was close enough that the promise of relief was in the air. The bar had been busy, but things had slowed down and Big Tim had gone home for the night. Maggie was playing her guitar while Hannah and I stood behind the bar, listening between the occasional order for another drink.
“I wish I’d learned to play guitar,” Hannah said as we leaned against the cabinets and watched Maggie.
“Why’s that?” I asked.
She shrugged, a dreamy half-smile on her face. “Just something about being able to make all that music with your hands and some string.”
“It’s definitely a talent,” I said.
“Do you like working with your hands?” she asked.
I told myself it was an innocent question.
