Page 68 of A Guy Walks Into My Bar
“Right.” I scrub a hand across the back of my neck, then shake my head. “I guess that proves my point. It stuck with me.”
“Are you all right, mate?” Naveen asks.
“You’re all amped up. Wired,” Anya adds.
I lift the cup. “All this bloody tea.”
Naveen’s face is lined with skepticism, his voice deadpan. “Yeah, you’ve been drinking it your whole life. I don’t really think the tea has you in this mood.”
I glance at my watch. “I should go. It’s Wednesday. There’s a . . .” I say, then drift off, trying to remember what I normally do on Wednesdays. Run errands for the bar. Pick up supplies we need. “There’s an order I need to fetch.” I check my watch. “I should be getting on.”
“Dean.” The no-nonsense tone comes from Naveen.
I look at him. “Yeah?”
“If you need to talk . . .”
“We’re here,” Anya finishes.
A wave of self-loathing crashes over me. I don’t want to talk. I already feel stupid enough. Telling them won’t help. Listening to my gut five days ago would have helped.
But still, they’re my friends. They’ll be here. Hell, they are here. And he’s gone.
I tap the table. “Thanks. Listen, I appreciate it. I just need to sort some things out in my head. I’ll be fine.”
“And if you’re not, we’re still here,” Anya says again.
“And if you are, we’re here too,” Naveen echoes. It’s become a refrain.
I give a half-smile, which is all I can muster. “I know. Goes both ways.”
I open my wallet to pay, when Naveen waves me off. “Your money’s no good here.”
I stand, thank them, and take off.
I cross the street and head down the stairs into the Tube. I wish I could say I feel better than I did when I called them a little while ago then crashed their breakfast together.
I don’t.
But at least I feel like I’ll get through this, reassured that I have everything I need right here.
When I exit a few stops down the line, I pop into a supplier’s, say hello, grab a box of vodka samplers, return to the station, then head back home. I’ll leave this at my place and take it to The Magpie tonight.
Because I’ll be back at the bar.
I’ll do what I usually do on Wednesdays. Exercise in the morning. Grab a bite with Taron. Work on the books then mix the drinks and talk to the customers.
Everything I’m supposed to be doing.
As I get off the Tube once more in my neighborhood, my phone buzzes once, like it’s just caught cell service after trying to connect underground.
And for a few fantastic seconds, my brain tricks me into thinking it’s Fitz.
That he’s been calling all morning.
That the phone went to voicemail while I was on the Tube, where there’s no cell reception.
That maybe he knows how I fucking felt when he took off.
But I don’t grab it in time, and the ringing ends in my pocket. Checking it is too difficult as I juggle the box and head up the steps. The missed call will be there when I get home, and besides, it’s not going to fucking be him.
I’ve been ghosted, and I can’t wait till tomorrow at two, when I know he’ll be gone from my country and out of my life for good, and I can truly erase him from my head and heart.
I walk down the street, passing the shops I know, saying hi to a few neighbors, then I turn down my road.
And I stop in my tracks.
He’s sitting on the steps of my building, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, staring at his phone. One hand scrubs his chin, that thing he does when he’s thinking, trying to figure out what to say, what to do.
Even from this many feet away, I can tell what he’s feeling.
It’s in the set of his jaw, the angle of his shoulders, the language of his body.
He’s miserable.
Like I’ve been all morning.
Then, he raises his face and sees me, and something like hope flickers across his eyes.
But I steel myself to feel absolutely nothing.
31
Fitz
The second I see Dean—the damn nanosecond—I’m up, walking down the street toward him. I need to apologize.
I don’t think it’s going to be easy.
His face is the definition of implacable as he carries a box under his right arm.
I rush over to him—not quite running but definitely moving faster than a walk. When I reach him and he keeps going, I turn around and head with him toward his flat.
“Hi,” I say, my stomach roiling with nerves, with fear, with something else too—this crazy hope that he might feel the same way I do.
“Hello.” He’s cooler than he was on the bridge.
I deserve it. I clear my throat, trying to figure out what to say. I’ve been sitting on his stoop for twenty minutes, practicing, but nothing has stuck yet, so I blurt out the obvious. “I left this morning. At five or something.”
