I change out of my dirty T-shirt and jeans into black yoga pants and an oversized sweater that hangs off one shoulder 80s-style, then sit on the couch with my glass of wine when a text comes through from a friend back home.
This is the first time she—or any of my friends—has reached out to me since the wedding. And, yes, I understand that it only reiterates that I have some shitty people in my life.
I open my phone.
Mindy: OMG! Did you see this??
She included a screenshot of Troy’s Instagram page. I unfollowed the page last week, but now I open the app and search for his name. Troy has a public profile, so I don’t have an issue with seeing the images.
Photo after photo of my ex-fiancé in Aruba—on my honeymoon—with none other than Heather Croy. My supposed friend. Ex-friend now, the way she’s hanging all over him.
I don’t bother replying to Mindy. She’s only stirring shit. Doing a good job of it, obviously, but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of a response.
I stand and pace the living room. I can hear the music downstairs as I drink wine and look at the photos over and over again.
He went on my vacation.
He took my friend.
I wonder if they were sleeping together before the wedding. Looking back now, it honestly wouldn’t surprise me if Troy had been cheating on me for a long time.
I finish my wine and frown. I’m going to need much more of this.
I march out the door and down the stairs to the bar. Keegan’s eyebrow raises when he takes me in and then he cocks his head to the side. “Problem, sweetheart?”
“I want to get drunk.” I hop up onto a stool. “Take the tab out of my paycheck.”
His eyes narrow. “All right then, if it’s drunk you want to be, I can help with that easily enough. Wine?”
“Whiskey.”
He sighs and leans on the bar. “Izzy, what’s bothering you?”
“None of your business.” If I talk about it, I’ll cry, and I’ll be damned if I waste even a single tear on that asshole Troy. “I just want to drink.”
“Okay, then.” He pulls out a highball glass, not a shot glass this time, and pours me a good helping of Irish whiskey.
“Whoa, be careful there, lass,” the man next to me says when I take a big gulp. “That whiskey is for sipping. It’ll go down smooth as silk.”
“What’s your name?” I ask the older gentleman.
“Sam.”
“Well, Sam, thank you for your advice. Are you married?”
“For nearly forty-six years now.”
I grin and pat Sam’s shoulder. “That’s sweet. Do you still like her?”
“Do I like her?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I guess there was a day or two in those years that the liking might have been in question. But the love has only grown every day.”
I nod and feel warmth spreading in my chest. Whether it’s the sweet words from Sam or the whiskey, I’m not entirely sure.
“That’s nice. I’m glad for you, Sam.” I set my glass closer to Keegan and nod at him. “More, please.”
Keegan’s lips press into a line as he pours me some more, but he doesn’t ask again what’s wrong.
I take a big sip, then decide to slow it down a bit so I don’t fall on my face in the next six minutes. My lips tingle, and my head is blissfully cloudy as the band returns from their break and begins a slow, sad Irish song.
Maggie bustles by and offers me a smile. “Hello there. I thought you’d left for the evening.”
“I did, too, but it seems I need to get drunk.”
Her eyes narrow, much like her older brother’s. “Well, we all have those nights, don’t we? Let me know if you need anything. Like food to sop up some of that Jameson.”
“Then I wouldn’t be as drunk, and that would be sad.”
She chuckles and loads her tray with the drinks Keegan placed out for her. “That’s true. I’ll be back.”
She bustles away, and I take another swig of whiskey, then blow out a breath as the liquid burns its way down my throat.
It only takes me about half an hour to get good and thoroughly buzzed. I certainly wouldn’t be able to drive at this point.
There are two of everybody.
It’s delightful.
“More, please,” I say to Keegan, but he just slides a glass of water in front of me. “Hey, what’s the big idea?”
“You need some water in you before I give you more alcohol,” he says. I begrudgingly take a sip of water and frown at him over the rim. “Would you like to tell me what’s got you so riled up, darling?”
“Fine.” I wake up my phone and bring up the photos, then toss the cell over to Keegan.
“What am I looking at?”
“My ex with my so-called friend in Aruba.”
His green gaze—the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life—flies to mine.
“I don’t even know why I’m upset,” I admit and prop my chin in my hand. “I mean, I want nothing to do with Troy. He’s a first-class jerk. And, obviously, Heather isn’t my friend. But she was in my wedding—even though it didn’t happen. And now she’s all cozied up on my vacation. What should have been my honeymoon.”
“Of course, you’re upset,” he says as he sets my phone down on the bar. “Even if you don’t love him, it’s still a betrayal.”
“Mostly, I’m upset about Aruba,” I admit quietly. “I was so excited for that vacation. I’d been working for my dad pretty much non-stop for two years, and I needed to get away. Somewhere warm and tropical.”
“How long did you work for your da?”
“Since college. I wanted to be a weather girl, but my parents would not let me do that, even though I have a degree in meteorology and everything. They made me work for the family business, running numbers all day. And, yes, they’re wealthy, and I had an indulged life living in their guest house, but everyone needs a vacation now and then. Right, Sam?”
The older man smiles my way and nods his gray head. “That they do, lass.”
“I love that the Irish call me lass,” I say with a happy sigh. “Anyway, I sound spoiled. And maybe I am. Or was. But I’m so happy to be out of there. I love this job way more than I did being a bookkeeper. And I hated living in the guest house. Even though I could technically come and go as I pleased, they still kept tabs on me. I’m twenty-eight years old, and my mother would always comment if I brought shopping bags home or if I got in late. And I just realized, aside from a few personal things, I don’t own anything. I don’t even have a couch. Or a bed.”
I lay my face on my arms in despair.
“I’m pathetic.”
“I don’t think you’re pathetic at all, sweet girl.”
I raise my head at the new voice. A nice woman just down the bar smiles at me. “It sounds to me like you got yourself out of a bad situation, and that’s not pathetic in my book.”
“I agree,” Frank, the regular customer I’ve been waiting on every day for two weeks, agrees from beside her.
“I love you guys,” I say. “I really do. You’re here for me, and that’s what friends do. You’re my real friends.”