Arm Candy (Real Love #2)(65)

No.

It’s better.

Better in the sense that I found out early. That I wasn’t standing at the end of an aisle like a complete schmuck while Grace sneaked out of the church, or out of the courtroom, or off the beach.

I saved myself another six years of pain by taking the brunt of her breakup square on the chin.

That’s my lucid argument of late.

I’m not going to climb into a bottle of rum. I’m not drinking more than one or two beers. I’m not suffering from insomnia.

My coping mechanism this time? Work.

I normally never work past five. Lately I’m hunched over my keyboard until nine or ten. Last night I didn’t stop until after midnight.

The television blares in the background. I let the drone of bad news wash over me as I analyze and overanalyze and reanalyze data.

I have no more control over stocks than I have in the real world, but the act of striking keys and placing calls makes me feel in control. Downtime is the worst. Staying busy is the only way I’ll make it through.

The stock market is volatile. Its tectonic plates shift drastically, whether we’re talking about an act of war or a Kardashian getting her feelings hurt. That kind of unpredictability means it’s safe to play the middle.

I haven’t been safe.

My boss called earlier this afternoon. He’s seen my numbers. My percentage has tanked. Customer satisfaction is down. What happened? he wanted to know. Do you need a break? he asked.

I explained that I hit a bump in the road. I told him I plan on being back to top ten, back down to my lean, mean fighting weight, in no time.

He seemed to believe me.

He invited me to his house, and I told him I’d think about it. Being a country’s width away from Grace is tempting.

Standing isn’t easy, but I do it anyway. My knee wobbles and I straighten it, grab my empty water bottle, and tuck my phone into my pocket.

Over the sink I fill the bottle, my mind wandering.

Other than the voice of a miserable CNN reporter (are they ever happy about anything?), my house is quiet. It’s been quiet for too long.

I remember Grace’s tear-streaked face in the diminishing crack of her front door as I closed it for the last time. I wonder if she’s lonely. If she’s thought of me.

I shut off the sink when the water overflows, a frown pulling my mouth.

It doesn’t matter how she is. It only matters how I am.

Since my visit with my grandmother, I’ve avoided bars. All of them, especially my favorite bar in town. How shortsighted is that? Just because Grace decided to squash my heart like wine grapes, I no longer go to a place I enjoy? I was there first. If anyone should leave McGreevy’s, it should be her. Not me.

Righteous indignation is the worst kind, but that’s what I cling to as I suck a deep breath in through my nostrils.

I have to get over this before I lose my job or take off for California and turn into a tofu-eating hippie like my boss. I don’t thrive on mellow vibes. I live for action.

I pull my phone out and text Vince one word: Beer.

An almost immediate text back reads Where?

Where do you think?

After a lengthy pause, Vince responds: Dude. Seriously?

I’ll be there in fifteen, I text back.

Decision made.

Outside my former favorite bar, I survey the crowd through the windows. McGreevy’s is busy, especially for a weekday. Grace is behind the bar, her hair curled the way I like it.

The way I used to like it.

Standing there, watching her fluid movements, I remember how soft and giving she felt against me….When we danced. When we made love. When she leaned on me and I wrapped her in my arms.

My shoes may as well be cemented to the sidewalk. I set my jaw and will my feet to move forward, but they don’t. Grace glances up and my heart lodges in my throat. She can’t see me through the glass. It’s dark out here and light in there.

I watch her for a few more seconds, indecision immobilizing me. A shadow lengthens on the sidewalk and I turn my head to see Vince, his hands in his black leather jacket’s pockets.

“You don’t have to go in there,” he says.

“Where’s Jackie?” I’m going in and he’s not talking me out of it. It’s just taking me a minute to find my nerve. That’s all.

“She’s at home. She thought it’d be best if she doesn’t interrupt our guy time.”

“Guy time.” I make a face.

“Her words.”

“Let’s do this.” Finally I’m able to take one step forward. Then another.

Vince’s hand lands on my shoulder as I reach for the handle.

He’s concerned. His expression of worry isn’t unlike the one he wore on my wedding day. My nonwedding day.

“I’m thirsty, Vince.” So not the issue. “What is it?”

“Are you sure you want to see her?”

Through the window, I watch as Grace slides past a coworker. She pulls a draft beer and offers a tight smile to a customer.

I’m not sure about anything except that I refuse to let her rule my decisions any longer. Without a word to Vince, I pull open the glass door and step inside.





Grace


For the second time in recent history, the door to McGreevy’s swings open and deposits an unexpected male visitor into my bar. Only it’s not my dad this time. It’s Davis.