Page 8 of Doughn't Let Me Go

“Was a very successful night.”

“Celebrating, then? What’ll you have?”

I grin at him. “Got any tequila?”

Slice Two

Doris

“Got any tequila?”

The stranger grins up at the graying man behind the counter.

He laughs, shaking his head. “You know we don’t serve the good stuff here. Settle for a beer?”

“Probably for the best anyway. I’ll take an IPA. Draft.”

“You got it.”

The older man slides down the bar, grabbing a glass and pulling the handle on the tap.

I turn my gaze to the younger guy, who’s sitting there with his shoulders slumped, eyes closed.

I don’t even know him, but I can tell he’s stressed.

I would know since that’s the exact reason I’m here instead of holed up inside my pitiful apartment.

Given the sad state of my bank account and the fact that I need to be saving all my pennies for college, wasting money on a dinner out is the last thing I should be doing, but I also couldn’t possibly spend yet another night curled up on my sofa contemplating my life decisions.

It’s a moot point anyway. What happened, happened, and I can’t take it back.

Not that I’d want to.

No matter what struggles I’ve faced since, walking out of my house the moment I turned eighteen and never looking back was the best decision I’ve ever made.

But I’m not going to think about my past tonight.

Tonight is not a night for reflection. It’s a night of freedom because I finished my last final this morning. I’ve exhausted all the resources I can at the community college and knocked out a few required courses for my degree. I’m one step closer to doing what I set out to do.

All I want to do tonight is eat cheap pizza and not think about tomorrow when all of this could change. I could actually be ahead for more than one payday.

The more I think, the more I’ll dream, and the more I dream, the bigger the letdown when things inevitably don’t go my way.

Stop thinking about it. It’s like playing the lotto—if you don’t think about it, you win.

I mentally shake myself.

The older man drops off a full beer but doesn’t say anything, letting the guy have his moment.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, a shiny watch that looks expensive glinting on his wrist. He takes a few deep breaths, and I can tell they’re the first real breaths he’s taken in a while.

His brown hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it, the look not matching the dress pants and white button-up he’s wearing.

He has that drinking-alone-at-a-hotel-bar kind of vibe to him and looks out of place inside this little pizzeria. He belongs somewhere a hell of a lot fancier than here.

Unlike myself, who blends in perfectly with this crowd in my old ratty t-shirt, jeans, and shoes that have seen better days.

“I can feel you staring.”

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