Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(130)

“See, I knew you’d say that too.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Your statements are unsurprising, and I am unsurprised by your unsurprisingness.”

I frowned. Kaylee was obviously in a sassy mood tonight. Maybe her court date hadn’t gone well.

“Gee. Thanks,” I said, sending her a disgruntled look, knowing better than to argue with a lawyer.

“You’re in a rut, Abby.” Her eyes turned soft. “You do the same thing every day. You wear the same thing every day. You eat the same thing every day. The only things you change are the color of your nail polish and your hair cut.”

“And look how happy I am.” I glanced toward the door to count the newcomers but found only a solitary man, already sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar closest to the door.

A huge, enormous, colossal mammoth of a man. He was so big and tall, the rest of the bar seemed to shrink in comparison. Great. Just . . . great.

“Who is that? Is he a regular? Why do you look so irritated?” Kaylee glanced between my face and the man, keeping her tone hushed even though we were too far away for him to overhear our conversation, especially with Frank Sinatra crooning at us over the radio, telling us our Christmas will be merry and little this year.

Even so, I also lowered my voice. “It’s just, we’re less than an hour until closing and he’s not a regular. Convincing non-regulars to finish up and head out can be . . . annoying.” And he was big. And he was male.

This wasn’t always the case, but in my experience—maybe nine times out of ten—a big, burly guy coming into the bar so close to closing didn’t typically want a quick drink.

Her gaze stayed on him, assessing. “He’s handsome though, right?”

“Is he?” I grumbled, putting back all but one drink menu and one cocktail napkin.

“Uh, yeah. Very. And he looks familiar. . .” She placed her elbow on the bar, narrowing her eyes as she leaned an inch toward him, as though to see him better in the dim light. “I thought you had owl vision. Who does he look like?”

The truth was, other than noting this person’s size and a general impression of his clothes, my eyes were blurry with visions of tonight’s likely unpleasant conclusion: my coworker Ingrid and I coaxing him to leave, failing, and then having to either call Walker at home or the security company.

I didn’t care if this stranger was objectively the best-looking guy in the world. After tonight I had three days off. Anyone making me work late tonight was a blobfish.

“Whatever.”

My voice must've hinted at my thoughts because Kaylee tore her attention from the man, her eyebrows raised expectantly. "Why do you always sound so irritated when there’s a hot guy? Why do you dislike hot guys?"

“You have to admit, hot guys have hot guy problems, which are like first world problems on steroids.”

“Come on, everyone likes hot guys. It's biological. There's nothing you can do about it. You have no choice.”

I would've argued with her, told her that I had nothing against hot guys in general, but she made a sound of protest before I could speak.

“Abby.” Her eyes were full of sympathy. “Eventually you're going to have to date someone.”

Ugh. Dear. Lord. Not this again!

“Do I, though?” I’d tried dating. In fact, I’d even tried marriage. Everything about it was a horrific disaster, on so many levels. This topic was why Kaylee and I currently shared just a car instead of a car and an apartment.

“Yes.” She looked entirely earnest and concerned. That just made her pushing worse. “You can't let one bad experience—what, eight, nine years ago?—dictate the rest of your life."

“Can't I, though?” I tucked a drink menu under my arm.

Albert Einstein defined insanity as doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results, but I’d never been one of those people who needed to learn a lesson more than once. One and done, that was my motto, especially when the “one bad experience” had ended in jail time.

“You must get back on the horse, Abby.”

“Must I, though?” I tapped my chin.

“Yes you—” Finally recognizing my attempt at deflection, she snapped her mouth shut and gave me a flat look. “Your dense barrier of sass notwithstanding, you know getting out there, putting yourself out there, would be healthy.”

Kaylee hadn’t been there for my marriage, but she’d witnessed the aftermath. She’d watched me struggle under the mountain of debt and sorrow and anger and helplessness. Why couldn’t she just drop this? And even if I hadn’t barely survived my divorce, I’d heard and seen enough sad stories from bitter and depressed bar patrons to convince me that desire was a scam, soul mates were a lie, and the only thing romantic love did to your heart was break it.

And then send it to bankruptcy court and jail for your ex’s massive—I mean impressively colossal—debts and Ponzi scheme that you had NO IDEA about when you’d gotten married at an impressionable eighteen years old.

“Why can’t you let me live my best life, Kaylee? Maybe my best life is eating scrambled eggs every day and never dating.” Legit, I loved both scrambled eggs and never dating.

She scowled, but her words were teasing, “This is a good time to tell you. I, and others, consider your perpetual contentment with life a personal attack.”