Justification. The problem with the initials after my name was that I could smell my own bullshit.
I snuck out early and ended up at a bar two blocks down from the funeral home. I claimed a booth in the back, one tucked behind a pool table and beside a crooked dartboard. It was quiet, the bar half-empty, and I slid into the plastic seat and pulled a metal bucket of dusty peanuts toward me.
The waitress was heavily pregnant and lumbered over with a disinterested yawn. I saved her a few extra trips by ordering a bucket of beer.
“Getting anything to eat?” Her gaze drifted over my black pantsuit with the sort of curiosity that indicated ironed outfits rarely made their way through the doors.
“Just the beer.” I forced a smile.
“You guys with some sort of convention?”
“Excuse me?”
She pointed toward the entrance. “You and him.”
I followed her direction and saw a man in a three-piece suit on a stool at the bar. “No.”
She shrugged. “Okay. If you need more peanuts, let me know.”
The jukebox started up, some twangy song about Amarillo in the morning. I eased down in the booth until my head rested against the cushion. I hadn’t been to a bar in a decade, which might be why I was still single. It was hard to find a boyfriend when you spent the bulk of your time surrounded by fellow shrinks and psychotic patients. The last time I’d stepped foot in a bar, the delicate sounds of a pianist played as hushed conversations were held beneath expensive light fixtures. I’d sipped a handcrafted drink garnished with spices and served in a smoked tumbler.
This place was the polar opposite, the sort of establishment where mistakes were made and sorrows were drowned, which was exactly why I’d paused by the entrance and pushed open the door. If I could drink away the last two hours, maybe I could go to sleep without the vision of Brooke Abbott’s mother sobbing against the side of the casket.
“Here.” The waitress was back, heaving a metal pail full of Bud Light bottles onto the table. “If we fill up, you’ll have to move to the bar. The booths are for parties of two or more.”
I nodded. If they filled up, I’d be out the door and flagging down a taxi. I took a beer from the ice and twisted off the cap, chugging it until my brain flexed in response to the chill.
Two beers later, I returned from the bathroom and reclaimed my seat, my remaining bottles cockeyed and waiting in the ice. I picked up a sticky menu tent and reviewed the short list of offerings.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I made a vow a long time ago to stop any woman who was about to make a huge mistake.”
I looked up from the card and into a face that looked as tired as mine. He wore it better than I did, his handsomeness almost magnified by the deep lines in his brow. “What mistake is that?”
“You were thinking about the fish dip, right?” The corner of his mouth crooked up, revealing a hint of straight teeth. He was my age, late thirties, and I checked for a wedding band, my interest rising at the sight of his bare ring finger.
Not that a relationship was what I wanted. Right now, with guilt weighing down every thought, I just needed a mistake. One filthy, mind-numbing mistake. If it came wrapped in an expensive suit and bedroom eyes, even better.
“I was actually thinking about oysters.”
He winced. “As a man who’s spent the last hour sampling every item on that menu, I recommend the wings and nothing else.”
“Sold.” I set the tent card down and held out my hand. “I’m Gwen.”
“Robert.” He shook it firmly, but not to the point of dominance. “Bad day?”
“Bad week.” I gestured to the other side of the booth, inviting him to sit. “You?”
“Same.” He slid in, and his leg bumped against mine. “Want to talk about it?”
“Hell no.” I pulled out a bottle and offered it to him. “Beer?”
He took it. “I have to say, I’ve never seen a beautiful woman drink alone for so long without being approached.”
“I think I put off a pretty clear ‘Stay away’ vibe.” I glanced around. “Plus, there’s no one here.”
“Which is shocking, given the ambience,” he deadpanned.
I laughed. “Yeah. But I don’t know, it fits my mood.” I leaned forward and wrapped my hands around the bottle. “With this glass, rich and deep, we cradle all our sorrows to sleep.” I gave a wistful smile. “My dad used to say that. Though he was a scotch man, not Bud Light.”
He studied me. “What are you doing here? You seem like more of an uptown girl.”
I had to smile at the polite dig. “A snob,” I amended. “That’s what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying you carry hand sanitizer in your purse and played Taylor Swift on the jukebox,” he pointed out. “To say you don’t fit in here is putting it mildly.”
I warmed at the knowledge that he had been watching me, then immediately reminded myself of why I was there. Punishment. Atonement. Two people were dead on my watch. “I was in the neighborhood.” I caught the waitress’s eyes. “You?”
He grimaced. “Attending a funeral.”
I paused, surprised. “The Abbott funeral?”
He raised his brow. “Yeah. You?”
“Same.” I frowned. “I didn’t see you there.” Not that I’d been studying the crowd.
“I left pretty early. I don’t do well at funerals. Especially lately.” A shadow passed over his face. “It’s been a bad year for me with deaths.”
I didn’t need my psychiatry degree to know to avoid that minefield. The pain was radiating off him, and if it was from this funeral, my guilt was about to get worse. I gave a slight nod in response.
His eyebrows pinched together in thought. “Who were you a friend of? Brooke or John?”
A friend? I’d be lying either way. “Brooke,” I said, and wished it were true.
He nodded. “John was my pharmacist.”
“Wow.” I took a sip of my beer. “Good for you. I don’t even know mine’s name, much less would attend her funeral.”
“My son had diabetes,” he said quietly. “We were frequent customers.”
Ah. Had diabetes. A bad year for funerals. Unless someone recently found a cure for juvenile diabetes, I had an answer for the haunted look in his eyes.
“Well.” I lifted my beer. “To John and Brooke.”
“To John and Brooke.” He clinked bottles with me, then downed the rest of his without flinching.
The waitress paused by our table and pulled the empty bucket of ice toward the edge. “Did you want to order something?”
“Yes. A dozen wings, please. Mild.”
“And another bucket of beer.” Robert threw an arm over the back of the booth, and his jacket gaped open, revealing the expensive lines of his vest. A custom suit. The glint of a Rolex peeking out of the sleeve of his jacket. A comfort level in this atmosphere where he obviously didn’t fit, bred from pure confidence. A businessman or attorney. Probably the latter.
“I really shouldn’t have any more.” I turned my watch so I could see the dial. Seven thirty. It felt so much later.