“What?” I ask defensively. “Is this about the pileup last week?”
I don’t even know why I ask. Usually when we have an all-hands-on-deck sort of event, it really fucks with our heads. For different reasons, of course, given our varying professions. Of course that’s what’s got them all tied up in knots.
“Here we go,” Beck says with a groan. “Asher’s dick is so big—“
“It was an intense morning,” Lars adds, giving Beck a look of understanding.
Clearly, these two are having their own conversation. I try not to pay too much attention to it, still eager to change the mood. I walk over to Beck and lean against the bar beside him. “You’re getting soft, Becky. That pileup was just another Tuesday morning for me.” Lies, but I’m trying.
My nickname for Beck finally brings an honest chuckle from somewhere deep in his chest. I’ve known Beck for a long time, and while he’s always been a little hard on himself, whatever is going on with him seems to be hitting him deep.
Lars continues throwing jabs at me, per usual, but it’s all in good fun. I think it’s because she likes me the best. She makes some quip about me hiding a deep sense of inadequacy, and I use the opportunity to flex my bicep. “Nothing inadequate here. You’re looking at Mr. January, remember?” I wink. “Cover guy.”
Lars can’t keep her cool any longer. “Oh, great,” she says with a laugh before taking another sip of her drink to finish it off.
I haven’t let my group of friends forget who was voted to be Mr. January in the calendar our station put out last year. We’d done it as a joke, but it’s not a joke anymore, considering we were able to raise a significant amount of money for charity. That was the seed that had given Aaron and I the idea for the organization we’ve been putting together. Hence, the calendar that still needs a photographer. I growl internally at the way I’ve procrastinated in finding one.
“You know you loved it, Lars,” I say. “Tell you what—I’ll even get you a signed copy of this year’s calendar. All the guys. Gals too.”
“Now I have something to look forward to,” Lars says as she grabs a twenty and slides it across the bar. “On that note, I’m calling it a night. I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
“Hey, that’s not fair,” Greg protests. “I just got here. I was dragged here against my will. If I have to stay, you do too.”
I scoff at Greg’s jab at me. Too bad for him, he’s already enjoying himself. Mission accomplished.
Lars just gives a little finger wave to Greg, causing Beck to chuckle and start after her. “I’ll walk you out, Lars.” He turns around and nods to Greg and me. “Don’t get too wild without me.”
“Lightweights,” I call out, realizing he’s not coming back.
“Like a resident nurse,” Greg adds.
Beck flips us off over his shoulder, and then they’re gone.
“You’re lucky I invited Owens, or I’d be bailing on you too,” Greg tells me like it’s a warning.
Sheesh, it’s a tough crowd tonight. “Maybe it’s you and your buddy who are the lucky ones. You’re hanging out with Mr. January, remember?” I start to flex again, but Greg punches me in the arm.
And that’s when I see her. Something about the dark-haired woman walking into the bar looking like she doesn’t belong gets me all fired up. My gaze scrolls over her features slowly, trying to figure out why she looks so familiar. Her hair is long, parted down the middle with one side reaching the top of her breast.
I don’t mean to ogle the woman—or at least, what I can see of her from the other side of the bar—but she’s like a fucking bright orb in the darkest room. She’s all I see, and I study her like she’s the only thing I’ll ever see.
She takes a seat at a booth in the front corner of the room, so far away that whoever she joined is partially blocked by a wood pillar. I consider approaching her even though she’s with company, not that I’d know what to say when I got there. It’s been a long time since I’ve tried to talk to a female who isn’t Lars, a co-worker, or one of my patients. Do I tell her she looks familiar? Do I ask if she fell from heaven? What do I say?
I’m practically panicking when I remember that I’m here with Greg, who’s currently lost in whatever hockey game is playing on television.
“Hey, I know I joked about it, but… are you doing okay? After the accident last week?” I ask him. Something twists in my gut at my own memory of the horrific pileup.
He shrugs. “I’m fine.”
I raise a brow. “That’s convincing.”
“I don’t know,” Greg says. “I have the same attitude you do about it.” He frowns. “Which I’m not sure is a good thing, but it’s true. It’s just another day at the hospital. I specialized in trauma when I was in Chicago for this exact reason—so that when I’m called in, I can be calm and do my job.”
“Hear, hear,” I say, clinking his glass with mine. “Still… you seem a bit off this week.”
He lifts his shoulders and drops them heavily. “Just some stuff on my mind.”
A guy I don’t recognize approaches, and I realize instantly it must be Greg’s infamous friend Dane Owns, who Greg had mentioned was coming.
“Sorry I’m late.” Dane claps Greg on the back. Then he gestures at Harry, who’s standing at the bar, and orders a drink.
My eyes flicker back to the woman on the other side of the room while Harry grabs Dane his beer of choice. I feel like I should know her. Certainly, I would remember meeting her. Again, I think about walking over to introduce myself, but seeing as I begged Greg to come here and Dane just joined us, I don’t want to be rude.
“I can’t believe it’s taken us this long to meet,” I say to Dane. “West here talks about you like you’re his lover.”
“He wishes,” Dane teases.
I gather that Dane and Greg were roommates as undergrads and have stayed close. And Dane seems cool enough. He’s into fishing and football like me, and he’s all ears when I talk about the renovations I’m doing on my home.
At some point, Greg gets on a phone call, Dane is transfixed with something on the screen, and my focus goes back to the woman. The reason she looks familiar finally hits me. She’s the woman from the accident. How could I have forgotten?
Shit. I lean back in my seat as I recall the last time I’d seen her. I’d been a complete asshole, thinking she was a photojournalist when really, her car had just been rear-ended and she was taking photos for insurance purposes. The way I’d jumped to conclusions that day is very unlike me.
Then again, I’m still trying to figure out who me is. My separation from my ex-wife was one thing, but finalizing the divorce was an entirely new beast. Sure, I still have my same friends, and I was able to put a hefty down payment on a fixer-upper home, but I feel like a failure for the way my marriage ended.
No matter what, I shouldn’t have taken it out on that beautiful woman, who is now infiltrating my mind and my bar. She’d come to Shipwrecked. If that isn’t a sign that I need to talk to her, then I don’t know what is.