I pull up the hood on my jacket and sprint across the small parking lot to my Camry. I yank open the door and jump inside, then pause to assess the damage. My scrub pants are fairly damp, but at least my hair seems to have been spared. There are water droplets in my eyelashes.
Considering I am wet and uncomfortable, this would probably be a good time to head home. Maybe make myself a warm beverage and watch a little television before I turn in.
But I don’t head home. Instead, I punch an address into my GPS, one not far off the freeway. When I reach theblock of my destination, I turn off my headlights. I park across the street and stare out the window.
“You have reached your destination on the left,” Siri tells me.
“Thanks,” I murmur.
I stare out at the Kelloggs’ front door through my windshield as the wiper blades swish back and forth.
I don’t entirely know why I came here. I noted his address on the billing form, and it stuck in my head. I meant to drive straight home, but instead, I got to thinking about Mrs. Kellogg’s black eye. And before I knew it, I was typing their address into my GPS. And now I’m here.
I stare across the street, into the glowing windows of the first floor of their house. I don’t see any silhouettes in the window. They’re probably in the dining room having dinner. Or maybe watching TV on the sofa together.
I look down at my fingers, gripping the steering wheel so hard, my knuckles are white.
I take a shaky breath. Then another.
Then I throw the car back into drive and get the hell out of there.
I don’t want to go home now. The idea of coming home to my empty house makes me feel slightly ill. So instead, I find myself navigating the wet roads and heading over to Christopher’s again. I feel like having another Old Fashioned tonight. Just one.
It occurs to me as I’m pulling into the parking lot that Henry Callahan might be here tonight again. My heart skips a beat at the thought of it.
God, I need that drink.
The rain is still coming down, so I put my hood back up and dash through the parking lot to get to the entrance. Fortunately, I don’t see any familiar faces when I walk into Christopher’s. Well, except for the bartender. It’s the same guy from yesterday. The one with the nondescript brown eyes and hair and the perpetual five o’clock shadow, who stood up for me when Callahan was hassling me yesterday. The one who looks strangely familiar—that feeling I’ve met him before is even stronger this time.
I watch him as he uses his bottle opener to take the cap off a bottle of beer. He slides it onto the table for a customer then scoops up the payment and tip. I’m convinced I know this man. But from where?
I sit down at the bar and wait for him to take notice of me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but his eyes light up slightly when he sees me. “Another Old Fashioned, Doc?” he asks me.
That voice. His voice is familiar too. This is driving me crazy. “Yes, thanks.”
He assembles the drink in front of me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but it looks like he’s giving me more whiskey than yesterday. When he’s finished, he slides the amber liquid across the counter in my direction. “Enjoy.”
I wrap my fingers around the cool glass. “Wait,” I say.
He raises his eyebrows.
I clear my throat. “Do I know you?”
He freezes. From the expression on his face, it’s obvious he knew exactly who I was from the moment he laid eyes on me. And he didn’t tell me.
“Yes,” he finally says. “I… my name is Brady Mitchell.”
And then… oh my God, it all comes back to me. “We dated!”
One corner of his lips quirks up. “You could say that, yes.”
Except that’s an understatement. And he knows it. We didn’t just have a few dates. He was my boyfriend… sort of. But it was ages ago. Back in college. He was, in fact, the teaching assistant for a computer science class I was taking. After the class was over and my grade was in, he asked me out, and I found him so adorably dorky, I said yes.
But he’s not dorky anymore. He looks very different—it’s no wonder I didn’t recognize him right away. He grew up. He used to be clean-shaven and skinny and gangly, but his face filled out and… Well, it’s hard not to notice his chest filled out too. And why is hebartending? The guy has a bachelor’s degree in computer science. He was a genius—he could doanythingwith a computer.
“Why didn’t you say it was you?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine, and he doesn’t need to answer the question. Obviously, he doesn’t feel great about where his life is right now. I don’t know how he ended up this way. Not that being a bartender is terrible, but I expected he would be the next Bill Gates by now. Something went wrong. Got caught hacking? Drugs? I have no idea.
