The Stocking Was Hung(2)

His words make me forget all about the guilt of lying to my mother and the sadness of ruining yet another relationship because of my fear of marriage.

“Look, buddy, it’s the holidays and everyone is miserable,” I spat out angrily while I continue to search. “It was an accident. I happen to be having the shittiest week of my life, which I’m sure you would know nothing about, so kindly remove the stick from your ass.”

My hand finally finds the crumpled up wad of napkins, and as I pull them out, I shout with victory, swiveling my chair to face the jerk.

“Eureka! Found the nap…kins…” I stammer as my ability to create a clear, logical thought dissipates when I come face-to-face with the man behind the pissed-off voice. Blue-grey eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. A chiseled face with dimples in both cheeks. And…oh shit, a military uniform.

“So, about that whole ‘You wouldn’t know anything about having a shitty week’ thing,” I say with a bright smile as I thrust my hand holding the napkins out to him. “Can I assume you’re on your way home from a Christmas costume party?”

He snatches the crumpled ball of paper from my hand and starts swiping at the wet stain on the crotch of his camo pants, my hope dying when he speaks gruffly without looking up.

“Sure, if you consider coming home from an eighteen month deployment in Kabul a party.”

Just one thing. Is it too much to ask for just ONE THING to go right in my life?

“Okay then, how about we just agree that you won this round for shittiest week? Or months,” I reply lamely as he tosses the used napkins on top of the bar next to me.

He closes his eyes and sighs, running one hand through his short, dark brown hair. I take that as my cue he’s finished with this conversation and the crazy woman who just spilled half a glass of beer on his pants, so I turn my stool back around to face the bar. Out of the corner of my eye I see him quickly grab a camo backpack from down by my feet that he must have dropped when I showered him with booze. I listen to his boots angrily stomp away, then push the sad little confrontation out of my mind and think about happier things. Like being fired from my acquisitions job at a small publishing firm due to slow sales. And how when I return after the holidays, I’ll be forced to tell Logan the nauseating cliché, “It’s not you, it’s me,” while he awkwardly lingers around and watches me pack up my shit from the apartment I should never have moved into with him only a month after we started dating. I should’ve known he was a clinger when he willingly offered me a bathroom drawer and half of the closet Pulling my phone back out of my purse, a distraction to keep me from wallowing in humiliation, I quickly regret that decision when I see a text from my mother confirming Logan’s urologist appointment for Wednesday at ten.

“You need a refill, hon?”

Glancing up from my phone, I open my mouth to answer her, but quickly stop when G.I. Joe returns and flops down on the stool next to me, speaking instead.

“We’ll take two more of whatever the lady was drinking,” he announces without looking in my direction.

“Two Goose IPA’s, coming right up,” she says with a smile before turning and walking away.

Military Man finally turns his head toward me and raises a shocked eyebrow. “Goose IPA, huh? Nice choice.”

He sounds impressed and I like it, even though I shouldn’t like anything about him since he acted like such an * about a little accident. The almost-smile on his face is much better than the pissy-frown from moments ago, though I realize I’m sitting here staring at him with my mouth open like an idiot.

Tearing my eyes away from his, I look down and realize he’s no longer wearing his uniform. He’s changed into a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved thermal t-shirt that matches the unique shade of his blue-grey eyes. I don’t know how it’s possible for anything to look better than a man in uniform, but this guy has done it. Even in jeans and t-shirt, he’s absolutely mouth-watering. As he moves his backpack from his lap to the floor by his feet, I notice a pocket on the front flap of the bag with white stitching that reads “SOX.”

“Is your name really Sox?” I question, pointing to the pocket when he gives me a questioning look.

He glances down at it, and if the lighting in here wasn’t so dim, with only the sparkle of the Christmas lights above us to see by, I could swear I see a blush spread across his cheeks.

“Uh, no,” he replies quietly, allowing the bag drop to the ground before grabbing the beer the bartender just placed in front of him and taking a big sip.

As I blindly reach for my own glass, I keep my eyes on his face while I take a drink, expecting for him to continue. He doesn’t elaborate at first, but that’s fine. I can wait him out. I have no idea why he sat down next to me after I spilled beer on him and then insulted him. I’m a little buzzed and feeling much less hatred toward the Christmas music echoing around me. Talking to a hot guy is a better way to spend the time while I wait for my connecting flight than wondering how disappointed my mother is going to be when I come clean about everything, what I’m going to do about finding another job, and where the hell I’m going to live when I go back home to Seattle after Christmas.

I let the silence stretch just enough for it to get creepy and uncomfortable while I sit and stare at him without saying a word. After a few minutes, my side-eye glance finally does the trick, and he shakes his head before turning his face back to mine.