Page 14 of Letting Go

He nods like he’s heard this a hundred times before, because maybe he has.

“But do you know it’s cheating?” he asks carefully. “I mean, maybe it’s something else. Gambling, an addiction, maybe he’s sick. Why do you assume it’s another woman?”

His tone isn’t accusing, just trying to poke at the bruise and see if it’s really broken underneath.

That hits a nerve. He’s not wrong. But he’s not right either.

“It’s personal,” I say, just as he pulls out two shot glasses, pours them both, and downs one like a man bracing himself.

I pick mine up, then say quietly, “We haven’t had sex in two months.”

He doesn’t react, but he doesn’t need to. That silence says everything.

I stare into the shot glass like it might offer answers, then tip it back, wincing just a little.

“He rejected me,” I say, almost to myself. “Not once. Several times. I tried. I reached for him, and he just... turned away. Said he was tired; said he wasn’t feeling well. Said he had a headache.” I laugh bitterly. “Classic.”

The bartender gives me a look, thoughtful. Then, with a shrug and just the faintest smile, he says, “Maybe he’s gay.”

And for the first time all day, I laugh. Not a dry, sarcastic huff, but a real, stupid laugh that bubbles up out of nowhere and catches even me off guard.

“Oh my god,” I say, covering my mouth. “Don’t do that. Don’t be funny right now.”

He grins, pleased with himself. “I’m just saying. Would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?”

“I mean… yeah,” I say, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. “God, that would actually make me feel better. Like at least then it’s not me. Just wrong plumbing.”

We sit in the lull of that laugh. It’s absurd, and it’s exactly what I needed.

Then the bartender says, more serious this time, “Whatever the reason is… you don’t deserve to feel this way.”

And I believe him.

“So,” I say, swirling the rim of my glass, “I told you my sad little soap opera. What’s yours?”

He chuckles, drying a pint glass. “Nah. You gotta be on this side of the counter to get that story.”

I lean an elbow on the bar. “Well, lucky for you, I stood on that very side for three years. About five years ago.”

His eyes flicker with surprise. “Wait, you worked here?”

“Yes,” I say, raising a brow. “Why? Hard to believe?”

He nods slowly. “I mean... yeah. You don’t exactly scream ‘college bartender’ anymore.”

I clutch my chest, mock-offended. “Wow. Should I just go cry into my overpriced handbag now?”

He laughs. “I meant it as a compliment! You’ve got the whole put-together, power-walk-into-court-and-win kind of thing.”

“Ah,” I say, grinning. “Well, I try not to take offense, seeing as my wardrobe’s basically eighty percent blazers and existential dread now.”

He points at me with the dish towel. “Now that’s bartender energy. Blunt truth and dark humour.”

“Once a bartender, always a bartender.” I lift my glass toward him in mock-toast.

“I was married,” he says, voice quiet but steady. “Happily. For ten years.”

I blink. “What happened?”

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