Missing You(40)

As they reached the pub door, Aqua pulled up short. His eyes went wide again.

“What is it?” Kat asked.

“I have to teach class.”

“Right, I know. That’s tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “I need to prepare. I’m a yogi. A teacher. An instructor.”

“And a good one.”

Aqua kept shaking his head. There were tears in his eyes now. “I can’t go back.”

“You don’t have to go anywhere.”

“He loved you so much.”

She didn’t bother asking who he meant. “It’s okay, Aqua. We are just going to grab a bite to eat, okay?”

“I’m a good teacher, aren’t I?”

“The best.”

“So let me do what I do. That’s how I help. That’s how I stay centered. That’s how I contribute to society.”

“You have to eat.”

The door to O’Malley’s had a neon sign for Budweiser in the window. She could see the red light reflecting in Aqua’s eyes. She reached for the handle and pulled the door open.

Aqua screamed. “I can’t go back!”

Kat let go of the door. “It’s okay. I get it. Let’s go somewhere else.”

“No! Leave me alone! Leave him alone!”

“Aqua?”

She reached out for him, but he pulled away. “Leave him alone,” he said, his voice more a hiss this time. Then he ran down the street, back toward the park.





Chapter 17


Stacy met her at O’Malley’s an hour later.

Kat told her the entire story. Stacy listened, shook her head, and said, “Man, all I wanted to do was help you get laid.”

“I know, right?”

“No good deed goes unpunished.” Stacy stared a little too hard at her beer. She started peeling off the label.

“What is it?” Kat asked.

“I, uh, took the liberty of doing some of my own investigating on this.”

“Meaning?”

“I ran a full check on your old fiancé, Jeff Raynes.”

Kat took a quick swallow. “What did you find?”

“Not much.”

“Meaning?”

“After you two broke up, do you know where he went?”

“No.”

“You weren’t curious?”

“I was curious,” Kat said. “But he dumped my ass.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“So where did he go?”

“Cincinnati.”

Kat stared straight ahead. “That makes sense. He was from Cincinnati.”

“Right. So anyway, about three months after you two broke up, he got into a bar fight.”

“Jeff did?”

“Yes.”

“In Cincinnati?”

Stacy nodded. “I don’t know the details. The cops came. He was arrested for a misdemeanor. He paid a fine and that was that.”

“Okay. And then?”

“And then nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is nothing else on Jeff Raynes. No credit card charges. No passport. No bank accounts. Nothing.”

“Wait, this is preliminary, right?”

Stacy shook her head. “I ran it all. He’s gone in the wind.”

“That can’t be. He’s on YouAreJustMyType.”

“But didn’t your friend Brandon say he used a different name?”

“Jack. And you know what?” Kat slapped her hands down on top of the bar. “I don’t really care anymore. That’s in my past.”

Stacy smiled. “Good for you.”

“I’ve had enough of old ghosts for one night.”

“Hear, hear.”

They clinked beer bottles. Kat tried her best to dismiss it.

“His profile said he was a widower,” Kat said. “That he had a kid.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But you didn’t find that.”

“I didn’t find anything after that bar fight almost eighteen years ago.”

Kat shook her head. “I don’t get it.”

“But you don’t care, right?”

Kat gave a firm nod. “Right.”

Stacy glanced around the bar. “Is it me or is this place extra douchey tonight?”

She was trying to distract me, Kat thought, but that was okay. And no, it wasn’t just Stacy. O’Malley’s seemed to be a verifiable United Nations of Douche Baggery on this fine evening. A guy in a cowboy hat tipped the brim toward them and actually muttered, in a Brooklyn accent no less, “Howdy, ma’am.” Dancing guy—there is one in every bar who has to do the robot or moonwalk while his buddies egg him on—was working his stuff by the jukebox. One guy wore a football jersey, a look Kat disliked on men but loathed on women, especially the ones who cheer too loudly, trying too hard to prove their fandom is legitimate. It always came off as too desperate. Two steroid-inflated, overwaxed muscleheads preened in the bar’s center—those guys never went to the dark corners. They wanted to be seen. Their shirts were always the same size—Too Small. There were hipster hopefuls who smelled like pot. There were guys with tattoo sleeves. There was the sloppy drunk who had his arm over another guy he’d just met, telling him that he loved him and that even though they had just met that night, they’d be best friends forever.