Page 3 of Accidental Mile High Vows

I save the recording and head upstairs to change.

The outfit I’d planned for date night with Mason is hanging on the back of my closet door. A pretty dress that I wanted to pair with strappy heels. I stare at it for a moment, then grab jeans and a top instead.

In the mirror, my hair still looks good. My makeup is smudged from crying, but I fix it. The manicure was definitely wasted on today, but at least my hands look nice as I request an Uber that’ll take me away.

Away from the life that just blew up in my face.

Murphy’s Tavern is across town. Far enough that I won’t run into anyone I know.

The job offer from Kryla Holdings flashes through my mind. New York. A fresh start. Triple my current salary, not that I have a salary right now. I quit my marketing job a month before Mom got sick, thinking I’d find something better. Then she died, and I couldn’t bring myself to do anything except survive off my savings.

Mason kept pushing me to take the New York job.

“You should go,” he said. “We can make long-distance work. I’ll visit all the time.”

Now it makes perfect sense. He wanted me gone.

2

SAVANNAH

Murphy’s Tavernsmells like beer and bad decisions.

It’s 6:47 PM when I walk in, and the place is busier than I expected for a Tuesday. The bar runs along the left side; its dark wood and tarnished brass fixtures have seen better decades. Sports play on multiple TVs, and there’s a small stage in the corner where a guy is setting up a microphone and what looks like trivia equipment.

I slide onto a barstool and catch the bartender’s attention. He’s older, maybe sixty, with kind eyes and a towel over his shoulder.

“What can I get you?”

“Tequila. The good stuff, if you have it.”

He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He pours me a shot of Patrón and slides it across the bar.

I down it in one go. It burns, and I love it.

“Another.”

This time, he pours two and leaves the bottle within reach. “Rough day?”

“Rough two months.” I throw back the second shot. “But today definitely takes the cake.”

The warmth spreads through my chest, and I can already feel the edges of everything getting softer. This is dangerous. I know this is dangerous. But I don’t care.

A little girl’s voice cuts through the bar noise. “Dad! Wait up!”

I turn and see a man in his forties holding the door for his daughter. She’s maybe seven or eight, clutching a teddy bear and grinning up at him like he hung the moon. He ruffles her hair, and they head toward the restaurant section where families can eat without drowning in the smell of stale beer.

Something twists in my chest.

I never got that. Never had a dad to wait for me or ruffle my hair. My father was an American soldier who swept my mother off her feet in some village near Barcelona. He promised her everything, told her he’d come back for her after his deployment. She believed him.

Then she found out she was pregnant.

The letters she sent went unanswered. He just disappeared.

Mom immigrated to Chicago when she was twenty and pregnant. She worked herself to the bone to give me a life. She never talked about him much, but I saw the hurt in her eyes whenever I asked.

I pour myself another shot.