Page 23 of The Fate Factor

When I was diagnosed in college with ADHD and dyscalculia, the doctor provided the why, but not the how. As in how to keep digits from swapping places when I try to do simple math in my head, or how to read the sales reports Wes sends me in Excel—my personal hellscape.

My beer is top notch and I kick ass at convincing people to drink it, but I literally have no idea how the business end of my business works. Wes knows this better than anyone.

Worry starts to make its way through the pain in my head and I dig my palms into my eyes. It’s not easy to pull rank while shirtless and curled into the fetal position, but I try. “Like it or not, it’s my call, and I need more time.”

Me being sidelined is a temporary problem—albeit a huge one—and I’m not going to make a permanent decision because of it. Not yet. I still have three months.

“Fine.” Wes stands, dismissing me. “I’ll see you downstairs in a few hours.”

I give him a left-handed salute, since my right side is immobile, and Wes heads toward the door, not exactly slamming it, but giving it a little extra shove as he leaves me alone with a sinking feeling and a headache from hell. And a little hope that Noel has shown up again at the exact right time.

Looking around the bustle of my bar tonight is bittersweet. The crowd is already swollen past normal Friday night numbers. The entertainment is setting up in the corner and people are filling in around the bar. The night is going off without a hitch. And without me.

“You’re not supposed to be down here, Jamie,” Em shouts over the crowd. She doesn’t look at me, just continues pouring my beers while she gives me shit.

“I’m not behind the bar.”

Em hands off her order, then comes to stand in front of me. “But youaretaking a seat from a paying customer. And annoying me.”

I take out my wallet and throw down a twenty. “There,” I tell her. “That’s at least another hour’s rent for this stool in my own bar.”

“Don’t get snippy with me,” she says, not surprising me when she pockets my cash. “I know you’re in pain, but that pout on your face is bringing down the whole room. People come here for the dimples, Pretty Boy. Give ‘em what they want or get out.”

“I can’t take being upstairs alone anymore, Em. I have five streaming subscriptions and I think I’ve reached the end of them all.”

She taps her temple. “You’re concussed, asshole. You’re supposed to be bored, and you’re not supposed to be watching TV.”

“That’s why I came down here!”

“Yeah, well sitting on a bar stool the day after a hit like that is prime idiot guy shit.”

She has an unfortunate point, but there’s no way I’m sleeping through this night. I’ll play the good patient tomorrow. And besides, I have a very good reason why I need to be here right now. “What time is it?” I ask.

Em looks at the clock behind her. The vintage analog one that I have trouble reading even without a concussion. “Seven-oh-six. Three minutes since you last asked.”

She’s not coming. I don’t know why I’m holding out hope. Noel was pretty clear that I’m not her favorite memory.

The guitar player tests his mic, and I turn over my shoulder to pretend like I’m supervising something. Anything. We had awesome success all summer with live entertainment in the tiny courtyard I sectioned out of the parking lot, so when the nights turned colder, Em and I decided to remove one of the long wooden tables from the front corner to make room for a stool and an amp.

Bonus: I swiped the table and brought it upstairs to my apartment so I could finally have a place to eat meals that wasn’t my couch. I spend all of my time in the brew house or behind this bar, so my loft is a little barren. I’m acutely aware of it now that I’m going to be confined there for a while. I can already feel my skin start to itch from the impending solitude.

But before I have a chance to sulk about the turn my life has taken, the front door opens, and Noel walks in, looking as beautiful and magical as she did last night. Maybe my luck’s about to turn around.

seven

Noel

Agroupofguysinflannel shirts hold the door open for me as I step tentatively into Jamie’s bar. Alone. Kate declined my invitation-slash-pleading to come along. “Sorry, Noel,” she said, “I’m not crashing your first date with Mr. Destiny. That’s seriously messed up.”

I’d snapped that it wasn’t a date even though I knew she’d said it only to irritate me.

“Why are you so nervous, then?” she taunted.

I don’t know, Kate. Maybe I’m afraid of having some sort of psychotic break in public.

It was the other thing she said, though, about not being able to avoid it, that I couldn’t get out of my head. I replayed it over and over until it morphed into Nana’s voice. I could almostsee her puttering around the kitchen, dish towel tossed over her shoulder, doling out cosmic advice in a sing-songy voice:Something wants the two of you together.

I decided facing Jamie Bishop was easier than facing that memory-slash-hallucination. Though now that I’m here, I’m not so sure because wow. Here it is. The manifestation of what happened that night.

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