Chapter 2: 15 months later

Rex

"This one’s on me, sweetheart," I tell the brunette standing in front of me. I throw in a wink for good measure. Her eyes give me a once over, stalling on the tattoos that peek out from under my rolled-up shirt sleeves. Both of my upper arms are covered in tattoos I’ve designed myself but I’ve purposely kept my forearms bare. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, simply a personal preference.

"Thanks, Rex," Brooklyn coos. For the last few months, she’s been coming in to The Flying Goat, the bar I work at nights and weekends when I’m not glued to my computer, working codes and creating apps. I work for myself which allows me to take on whatever contracts I’m interested in. "Whatcha doing later?" she asks. This isn’t the first time and likely won’t be the last. Every time, I’ve turned down her advances but she’s persistent.

"I have an early day tomorrow," I tell her, purposely avoiding her question. If I tell her I don’t have plans, she’ll jump on the chance to come home with me but I won’t lie to her, either. Another personal preference of mine. I grew up in a house where lying was second nature and I refuse to be a fraud. A relationship guy, I am not, and I know that’s what Brooklyn’s looking for. She’s made that perfectly clear in her persistence of not just trying to get in my pants, but in ‘doing things’ too.

Her bottom lip pokes out. It’s glossy and plump and I almost give in. It’s really too bad she screams girlfriend material. My extreme aversion to relationships has given me a sixth sense when it comes to knowing what a woman is looking for when she approaches me. I don’t remember the last time I was the one to initiate anything with a member of the opposite sex. Whether I’m bartending or sitting in a coffee shop on my computer, women launch into conversation with me and I’ve learned how to recognize what they’re looking for.

"Another time?" She looks so hopeful, wrapping her lips seductively around the straw in her cocktail.

I answer by winking again. It’s the best I can do without shooting her down entirely. Which I definitely should, but I can’t stand the dejected look I know would cross her face. Another reason I don’t form attachments. The inevitable break up is more than I can handle.

Brooklyn smiles, slides off her stool and makes her way back to her table.

"Just tell her you aren’t interested, already," my friend, and the owner of the bar, Ethan, tells me once she’s out of ear shot.

"I know," I tell him, rubbing my forehead and leaning against the bar while we have a lull in customers. "I just, have a hard time with it."

"Can’t stand to give anyone the brush off?" he guesses, lifting a hand and interrupting me. "I know, I know. But that one’s been looking at you with hearts in her eyes for weeks now and she’s not getting your subtlety. Why else would she be here in the middle of the day by herself. Just be honest so she can move on."

"He’s right," Ethan’s wife, Liv, says, placing a tray on the bar and leaning over to kiss her husband. Leaning over isn’t easy for her with her growing stomach.

I roll my eyes as if their affection annoys me. It doesn’t, though. I’m happy for them and the life they found together. They had a bumpy road to get here, too.

"You need to sit," Ethan says to her. She’s due with their first child in just a few months and he’s been the typical protective, doting husband.

Liv shakes her head and says, "I’m fine, Eth," but that’s the extent of the fight she puts up. In fact, she plops into a seat rather dramatically, pulling over a second chair in front of her for her feet to rest on. Sighing loudly, she rubs her belly. "If only I had some of that spicy trail mix I love so much." Her theatrics crack me up and the way Ethan both caters to her and ignores her makes it even funnier. He doesn’t give in or let her run the show, and she doesn’t let him, either. They’re partners in every sense of the word.

A twinge pulls at my chest but I ignore it. Just like I’ve been doing for the past year around them. Some would say it’s jealousy. And they would be wrong. I’m only genuinely happy for my friends.

"I like how you just announce your cravings out into the world, hoping someone will listen and serve you," I tease her.

"Right? It works, too. Like 70% of the time, anyway, which is pretty good odds, I think. It’s a gift, really. I figure I’ll keep riding this out until I have the baby, then I can hop the new mother train for a while then I’ll make Eth knock me up right away so we can do it all over again. The plan," she pauses for effect to make sure she has her audience, keeping a straight face the entire time, "is that we keep going and going in this pattern for about ten years."

I bark out a laugh and Ethan smirks. No doubt he’s got his hands full with her. "Good plan."

"I agree." She smiles brightly and fluffs her hair. I hope Ethan’s right and they have a boy. I’m not sure the world is ready for a mini-Olivia yet. Someday, yes, but we need eased into it.

Ethan places a large bowl of her favorite snack mix on the table in front of her, along with a glass of water with lime, kisses her forehead and makes his way back to join me behind the bar.

"Such a sucker."

"Yup. But I’ll be getting lucky later because of it," he makes sure to inform me.

"He’s not wrong," Liv calls out, moaning as she munches away on her snack.

We laugh but get back to work. It’s relatively quiet now, but The Flying Goat is always busy during football season, which it currently is. When the local college football team takes the field, this place will be packed wall to wall to watch on the TVs hanging around the building. The game starts in about four hours but we expect the place to begin filling up in just a couple.

Shortly after Liv and Ethan got married, Liv and I talked him into hiring a few more bartenders so he didn’t have to be filling in so often. Being in a college town, it’s not too hard to find help. It was time for him to be home in the evenings and focus more on the management side of things. We thought it would be harder to convince him. Turns out, he was already planning it.

A few hours later, Liv and Ethan are out the door and bar is quickly filling up.

"Your girl’s still here, I see," one of our servers, Penny, teases, nodding her chin in the direction of where Brooklyn is still sitting. She’s usually not this persistent. I try not to huff my annoyance. "Need me to kick her out?" she asks, and I have no doubt that she would. Penny’s a ball buster and wouldn’t hesitate to march over to where Brooklyn’s sitting, staring at me, and tell her to get the hell out of here.

"Nah, maybe another time," I lie.

"You’re no fun."

I grin and run my fingers through my hair.

"She can stay as long as she wants. She’s not hurting anyone and besides, I’m leaving in about," I look at my watch, yes, I still wear one, and grin wider, "oh would you look at that. It’s time for me to leave."

"You suck."

"Don’t even deny that you don’t love it when this duo of clowns are working the bar instead of me."

She glances around and places her chin in the palm of her hands, elbows resting on the bar. "They are pretty fucking sexy," she admits and I roll my eyes.

"They’re also only twenty-one."

"And?"

I raise my hands, chuckling. "Don’t let me stop you from having fun."

"About time," she teases. "Yo! Zeus twins! You’re stuck with me tonight. The old guy has to bounce. Think you can handle me? I mean, it?"

"You sound like a douche," I tell her.

Their hardy laughter behind me says they agree.

"Alright. Then I guess I’ll bounce, you weirdo."

"Phew." She wipes at her forehead. "I thought you’d never leave."

I shake my head and spin on my heel, ready to leave before it gets too busy and stop in my tracks when my eyes land on the gorgeous woman standing at a high table chatting with a few other women. Rich, auburn hair spills down to the center of her back, a black long sleeve dress ends just above her knee and little boots cut off at her ankles. Her pert little nose scrunches as she looks at something on her phone then shows it to her friends.

She covers her mouth with her hand and ducks her head, shoulders moving up and down. She places her glass on the table, shakes her head back and forth then leans over the table as if whatever she’s laughing at is so humorous she can’t stand anymore.

But when she straightens, I realize she’s not laughing at all.

She’s fucking crying.