Page 73 of It Takes Three To Tango

The work on the bar is going well. Everything is starting to come together... except for me, where it’s all falling apart. I feel like shit and I know I must look the same as Alena pulls a face every time she turns up for work. But I don’t have time for that, we’re just two days away from reopening the bar.

It’s been rebuilt, redecorated, and cleaned. Today’s job is to unpack the storeroom and see if there are any last-minute items that need to be ordered.

We work hard for hours, lugging and emptying crates and refilling the fridges. Putting the bottles back on the shelves and giving all the glasses another clean.

I also do a stocktake and tidy the storeroom back to some sort of order. It’s hot work, and by the end of it I’m sweating. I lift my T-shirt to wipe my face.

“Urgh, boss. When did you last shower?” Alena’s lip curls in disgust as she walks past me.

I don’t actually remember. Am I that bad? I lift an arm and sniff. Okay, she has a point.

She turns around and faces me. “I’m going to say this as your friend and because I care about you. Go have a shower, put on some clean clothes, and take the night off. We’re nearly ready to open, and you need a rest, or you’ll not be fit to reopen on Friday. I’d like to tell you to sort out whatever’s put you in this funk, but I doubt you’ll listen to me. You have a tendency to stick your head in the sand, and I hate to see you like this.”

Her expression is soft, and I know she really does care. I’m lucky to have her as a friend. She’s also right, I could do with a shower and clean clothes. As for sticking my head in the sand . . . yeah, well, let’s not dwell on that one. I push myself off from leaning on the bar.

She backs off a little and puts her hands up. “Woah, if you’re coming in for a thank-you hug, can we postpone it? I like you but not that much.”

A laugh escapes me, the first for several days.

“Thank you, Alena. I guess I needed that.”

“You’re welcome, just please look after yourself, Con. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says before leaving me alone in the quiet of the bar.

I let the water run over me, turning it up as hot as I can stand. I stay under the shower for a long time, convincing myself that I really did do the right thing. “It’s for the best,” I mutter to myself for the umpteenth time. It’s almost become a mantra to me.

When I’m dry, I go in search of a clean shirt, which isn’t that easy, but then half my clothes are still up at Estrella’s house. The rest, well, I’m surprised they haven’t made their own way to the washing machine. I gather them all up into the laundry basket—I’ll sort them later—then open the closet and find at least something half decent to put on. My eyescatch sight of the wooden box and I pull it out. Yes, a reminder of Valery is what I need right now. Memories of true love, not a crazy infatuation. I sit cross-legged on the bed, and opening the lid, I start pulling out the photographs and treasure within.

I thumb through the pictures and relive the memories and good times, feeling the familiar ache, the long-settled grief that sits behind my ribs. I can bear it better now, almost welcome it. It’s an old friend, something I know the extent of. It can hurt me sometimes, and I’ve let it bring me down, but I know the depths it can reach. I know its limits.

Other images start inserting themselves into my well-worn pattern. That day with Rafe at Castle Montjuïc when he looked both vulnerable but so also like the brightest star in the universe. Florencio and his breathtaking honesty and feisty fun. Watching them together. . . and being a part of them. A large tear lands on the photographs I’d stopped looking through a while ago. I wipe it away and put down the stack of pictures. This is like nothing I’ve felt before. It snags on every breath, like fresh barbs waiting to dig into me when I close my eyes. It hurts to breathe, it hurts not to breathe. I’m caught in its thorny web, and every time I try to pull myself out, I get ensnared deeper. Its hooks pierce my skin, the pain burrowing in bone deep. I have no idea of the limits of this and until I find out, I know the only way I can cope.

First, I light a cigarette to steady myself, and then I reach for the bottle and pour a drink. A detached part of me is disgusted that I started keeping alcohol next to the bed again, but I pay it no heed as I try to numb myself. I pick up the photographs again, trying to get back onto safe ground. As I pack them back in the box, I find a letter. It’s open so I must have read it, but I don’t remember it. It’s Valery’s handwriting.

My Dearest Con,

It saddens me that I won’t be there for your best years, to share them with you side by side, but we don’t make this world, we can only live in it, and I’ve had my time. I couldn’t ask for a better person to spend my short time with. Thank you for every minute.

But now, however, I want you to put yourself first and find someone to share that huge heart of yours with. As you read this, I can almost hear you saying that lightning never strikes twice. It used to amuse me, but now I fear you will believe it and use it to not let yourself love again. I know I’ve told you this, but I also know you’re stubborn and won’t listen to anyone. I thought if I wrote it down, one day you might have need of it.

Pleaselook out for love, Con, and if you see it, grab it with both hands and don’t let go. Don’t become a martyr to my memory, because I know in a heart as big as yours there willalwaysbe a corner for me.

Love,

Valery

I knock back the drink and pour another. My phone rings and I ignore it, but as soon as it rings off, it starts again.

“What?” I snatch it up and answer it.

“Con?”

“Wis.” I let out a long breath.

“Are you all right?”

I ignore his question and ask tersely, “What is it you want?”

I hear his sharp intake of breath at the other end. He didn’t deserve that from me, but I’m past caring.

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