Fine then. I wouldn’t want to work for you anyway.
I maintained that attitude for the rest of the afternoon as I dropped off resume after resume. Not because I wanted to, but because every single employer had the same bitchy attitude as that manager. They clearly didn’t have much time on their hands and they saw talking to me as a burden, even though they had hiring signs in their windows.
It left a poor taste in my mouth.
So did getting bulldozed by New Yorkers butting in line in front of me whenever I tried to make my way to the counter to drop off a resume. I even stood in line and waited patiently but that didn’t seem to matter to the people of this city. Soon I started to strategize, and I stood with my hands on my hips and used my elbows as weapons to ward people off who got too close or tried to slip in front of me.
Not today, motherfuckers. Not today.
When six o’clock rolled around, I was still roughly three miles from my motel. My feet hurt, my back ached, and my legs felt like putty from so much walking. It had started to rain well over twenty minutes ago and the hood of my jacket was soaked through, as were the shoulders, and I was so cold my teeth had started chattering. Everyone else on the sidewalks had umbrellas and I felt like a dumbass for not thinking ahead and buying one.
Everyone in the movies had them. I should have known better.
When I spied the warm lights of a hole-in-the-wall bar spilling out onto the sidewalk, I stepped up to the door and read the menu posted on the wall. A customer came out and I got a whiff of French onion soup. My mouth flooded with saliva. I pushed my hood off my head, raked my fingers through my wet hair, and scowled down at the red stains left on them.
Nobody had warned me that red hair dye bled for days after application.
The pub was small and cozy. Everything was different shades of brown. The booth seats were warm brown leather and all the furniture was a glossy stained cherry color. Candles flickered in mason jars and the lighting overhead hung from old rafters and didn’t provide much light at all.
I moved up to the bar and took a seat at one end. There was a couple sitting at the opposite end, sipping drinks and talking quietly to each other. I took my coat off and draped it over the back of the stool. The bartender, a good-looking man in his late thirties with thick arms and tattoos from wrist to elbow, handed me a menu. It was red leather and bound with gold hinges. I thanked him and flipped it open, even though I knew I wanted the French onion soup I smelled.
I ordered the soup as well as a Moscow Mule. I needed something to take the edge off. It had been a brutal day.
My drink arrived first and I drank gratefully. While I waited for my food, I fired off two text messages. One to the group chat that was always going between me, Riley, and Madison, and the other to my parents who I doubted would see it for a while since they were still in France. I told them all that I’d spent my first day job hunting and that it seemed promising. I did not tell them about the rain, the poor-mannered New Yorkers, or my general disappointment at how the job hunt had gone.
When my soup arrived, my mood brightened. I warmed myself up from the inside and turned down the offer of another drink or more food. This was all that was in the budget and it had hit the spot.
Chapter 6
Wes
She wasn’t from around here. That much was obvious.
The woman who’d just walked into the bar looked like she’d been out in the rain for hours. She’d made her way slowly down the bar to claim the stool at the end, over which she draped her heavy wet jacket. Her dark red hair was wet despite the jacket having a hood and it sat heavy against her back. I imagined it must have felt cold as the wetness seeped through her shirt.
My writing mind wandered.
Where had she been? Why had she spent so much time out on foot in this kind of weather? Didn’t she own an umbrella?
Every respectable New Yorker knew the value of a good umbrella.
I watched from my dark corner booth as she put in her order and slumped forward on the bar to sip on her Moscow Mule.
I liked this place. I’d been coming here for the last few years. Apparently, they made good business, but every time I was here, it was always quiet, like tonight. There was usually something to watch, too. Rowdy guys watching a sports game. Husbands bitching about their wives. Old men squinting at their phones. Middle-aged loners hiding from the responsibilities of what waited for them at home.
It was rare, however, to see a woman as young and beautiful as this newcomer. She didn’t fit the bill of the usual clientele, and I wondered why she’d picked this place of all the places on this street to stumble into for some rest and fuel.
There was a story in this woman. I could feel it.
Where had she come from? Did she travel a long way to get to New York? Was it recent? Why did she come here? For a job? A man? Was she running from something? Did she have demons in her past? Was she looking for something?
I averted my gaze when she looked slowly around the bar. I kept my eyes down on my open notebook until I saw her face forward out of my peripheral.
The bartender ducked into the kitchen and returned with a handled bowl of French onion soup. Steam wafted up from the rusty-orange-colored bowl, and when he set it down in front of the woman, she leaned over it and breathed in the steam. He asked if she needed anything. She shook her head and picked up her spoon and he brought her a cup of water.
She cut into the bread and cheese on top with her spoon. I watched as she blew on it and sealed her pink lips around the spoon and ate. She took her time. Every bite was savored. Nothing was wasted. She finished the soup, pushed the bowl away, and sat back after taking a couple sips of water. A moment passed, and another, and once her bowl was cleared away, she leaned forward, rested her forehead in her hands, and stared down at her feet.
Either that or she’d closed her eyes.
I looked around the little tavern-like bar. Nobody was paying her much attention. Too curious for my own good, I got up and brought my notebook over to the bar. She didn’t hear me coming until I’d sat down on the stool beside her.
She lifted her head from her hands and looked at me out of the corner of her eyes.
They were the same color as the bottle of mint liquor behind the bar. Her stare was inquisitive, sharp, and bold. I saw a thousand thoughts race through her mind as she considered me. Then with a slight inclination of her chin, she said, “If you’re here for my number, you can move along. I’m not in the mood for sharing, and even if I was, I’m too tired to remember my own number.”
I chuckled and set my notebook down on the bar. “I assure you that’s not what I’m here for.”
Her expression remained unchanged, but she made a soft, dissatisfied sound in the back of her throat. “I can’t decide if I’m offended or relieved.”
“Well, does it make you feel any better to know that I haven’t asked a stranger for her number in half a decade?”
Her eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “No, it doesn’t. If anything, it makes me suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” I shifted in my seat and flagged down the bartender. He nodded, acknowledging that he’d seen me as he poured drinks for the couple at the opposite end. “Well, I can’t blame you for that, I suppose. New York is a big place. This is a mediocre bar. You’re alone.”