Page 93 of Mourner for Hire
“Cashing out now, Dominic,” Marv says, pulling out his wallet.
“No problem,” I say, thankful for the distraction. I need to gather my thoughts.
Who the fuck am I?I don’t gather my thoughts. I say what’s on my mind. I slide Marv and Henry their tabs in separate leather cases and tilt my head at Connor.
It’s odd how intensely Connor is coming to her defense when I know he’s not dense enough to think their date or the kiss they shared will put him anywhere but in the friend zone. There’s something he’s not telling me.
“What is it?”
“I think she’s interesting, and she’s got a big heart, and you just need to recognize it.”
I grab a towel and wipe up some condensation from empty mugs left on the bar, then swing the towel over my shoulder.
“And I think I have no desire to give a chance to the random woman from Portland who’s in my mother’s will and is living in her cottage.”
Because on paper—considering everything—we wouldn’t make sense.
Connor sips his drink. “So you give me your blessing, then?”
I jerk back. “Absolutely not.” My quick answer surprises even me, but it doesn’t seem to surprise Connor. I recover with a small laugh. “Do what you want. You don’t need my permission to date her.”
“You sure? Because the way your face flushed and how quickly you were to protect her, tells me I did need to ask.”
I ignore him and busy my hands with drying glasses, willing my mind to focus on anything—anything—other than Vada.
Before I can settle into the distraction, the door swings open, and in walks Kayla with her usual crew.
They claim a bar table near the jukebox, already tossing in coins to cue up Garth Brooks and Shania Twain. “She’s Every Woman” blares through the old speakers, and like clockwork, a couple starts slow-dancing while their friends cheer from the back corner. Familiar faces. People I’ve known my whole life. People who’ve been here for me, especially now.
Connor throws a ten on the bar and leaves, and I round the bar to wipe down tables, just as Kayla barrels into me with a hug.
While I’m grateful for the interruption, my mind immediately drifts. Unfortunately, back to Vada, considering howwhen I first met her, she assumed I was the type to crawl back in bed with my ex.
“Hey, Kayla.”
“Hey, Dunner,” she says in a Southern accent that only exists in caricatures in the Pacific Northwest. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“It is my bar.”
She laughs and turns to her friend. “I told you.”
“I wanted to come, Dunner. And Kayla said we shouldn’t because you would give her shit about it,” her friend says.
I glance at all three of them thinking,Is the giving of shit in the room with us?Instead, I say, “Nope, but I will give you ladies a drink?—”
“Or seven!” the other friend chimes in with a giggle.
I’m convinced they took shots at the house before arriving.
“We’ll see. What’ll it be?” I ask.
I take their orders and head back to the bar while thinking how Vada read me completely wrong. I have no ill will toward Kayla. I respect her, but I sometimes look at her and think of our time together, and it’s all foreign to me. The man who dated her doesn’t exist.
When I started talking about rings to my mom, she told me, “Don’t go running off and get married out of convenience and timing. Just because there’s nothing wrong with getting married right now and there’s nothing wrong with getting married to Kayla doesn’t mean it’s the right choice, either.”
The words hung in the back of my mind for months until I had the courage to break up with her, promising myself I wouldn’t be one of those military guys who gets married as soon as they graduate from basic training. We would have had a fine life. At least, most likely.
That’s not the life I want, though: fine. Good enough. Mostly okay.
