Page 78 of June: Jess' Story
Hot bartender comes back with drinks and tells me the special. (A wagyu burger with bacon jam and tomato confit.)Umm, say less, my friend.
I order that and a grilled cheese. Then, mostly kidding, I toast my beer against Eden’s apple juice. “Just you and me, baby.”
I suck the tears back in, cue upBlueyon my phone, and sit back to people watch while we wait for our food. I should feel out of place. These people are not my people. Not a single city person, at least from what I can tell. But tonight, it doesn’t bother me. It’s like I’ve shed the last of my fucks, and now I’m just doing the damn thing. Which is surviving.
No one looks at me oddly. No one stares unkindly. In fact, a family with a small toddler also in a highchair occasionally glances over and makes heart eyes at Eden for her good behavior. I want to lean over and tell them I just got lucky tonight to make them feel better about their kid who’s dumping salt all over the ground, but I don’t.
I don’t recognize a single soul, not that I should, and I think that’s what makes me feel okay. I can get lost in the crowd again. In that way it feels like New York. No one sees me and thinks, “Oh, here’s this woman whose life is mostly falling apart. Whose heart has been trampled on.” I’m just a random person who showed up in their bar, and they’ll never see me again.
“Jess, honey! What’re you doing here all by yourself?” Sandy’s twang has me sitting up straighter. I guess I spoke too soon.
“Hi, Sandy.” I set my beer down and stand to give her a hug. (Sandy is Liam’s mom. Probably the coolest member of their family, too.)
“We missed you the other day!” I tilt my head, confused. “At the ceremony. Brit said you were busy moving into the new house. Which I hear is fabulous, by the way.” Her tone is utter kindness and positivity. I know she’s not saying any of it to hurt me, but hurts nonetheless it does.
“Wedding ceremony?” Because what other ceremony would she mean?
“Yes…Brit didn’t tell you?” Now she’s looking confused.
“No, I had no idea.” I try to sound unafflicted, but don’t think it’s possible. Sandy does this tight-lipped smile thing, then automatically slides into the chair opposite Eden, and I sit, too, because what the hell else am I supposed to do?
She sets her Kelly handbag down on the open chair beside her and I stare at it a bit wildly. Sandy looks like she could be a rancher’s wife, plucked right out ofYellowstoneor something. She’s wearing cowboy boots, bootcut jeans, and a flannel shirt. Her white (not so blonde) hair is styled to perfection and she’s rocking a diamond ring big enough to cut glass and a Hermes Kelly.Good for her.
She settles in and pulls out a menu. I almost ask what she’s doing, but I know what she’s doing, and so does she.
The hot bartender (should really find out his name so I stop objectifying him) comes back over when he sees the additional guest at our table.
“Hey, Sandy,” H.B. (hot bartender) drawls out.
“Hey, Rick baby.” (H.B. is now Rick. I think Sandy just added ‘baby.’ ‘Rick baby’ would be quite the mouthful.) (For some ladies, I’m sure it is.)
“You want your usual?” I swear he sounds more country than he did when he took my order. It’s funny how people do that. New Yorkers sound more New York when they talk to each other, too.
“Yes, sir. And I’ll take the cod in caper sauce. And then a special to go in a bit for Jim.”Cod?From this place? Bold. Rick just knocks his knuckles against the edge of our table and disappears.
“Alright, sugar, who licked the red off your candy?” I shrug. Like I don’t know when I absolutely know. “Alright well, how ‘bout where’s your fiancé?” Sandy asks.
“Probably sitting at the dinner table where I left him.” Sandy breaks out in a gregarious laugh.
“I’m sure rightfully so, too!” A small smile breaks out on my face at her response. “And why, pray tell, aren’t you at Britain’s then?”
“She’s mad at me.” I shrug like I have no clue why, when I have absolutely every clue why.
“Hmm,” Sandy says, mulling it over. Rick sets down what looks like a negroni in front of her before whisking away again.
Sandy picks up her drink and holds it up to me in cheers, “To absent friends.” I clink my glass against hers and swallow my beer (and the lump in my throat.)
“You’re gonna be there tomorrow, right?” Sandy asks after taking a drink. Honestly, am I? I might meet with Brit, tell her I’m friends with Damian, add that to the fact that I’m engaged to Alex, and she just might write me off.
“I was supposed to be. She asked me to meet for coffee tomorrow morning.”
“You wanna talk about it?” The thing you have to understand about Sandy is the investment to her friendship is low. If I say no, she’s gonna move on. She’ll leave it alone. She’ll start telling me gossip about townspeople I’ve never met. But if I say yes, she’ll be all in, completely devoted.
“Sort of.” I give her a small smile and she settles into her seat with a nod. I take a deep breath and dive in. I actually tell her all of it. ALL of it. (Things I haven’t even told y’all.) Things I haven’t talked about in years. Things I literally black out from my memory.
But I tell her about meeting Alex, the real story. The weird text messages. The weirder time we met in a bar. I tell her about Amy. I tell her about how I came to work for Brit (through Alex), and how I’ll never understand why she hired me after everything that happened.
I tell her about Tommy (and Jamie), about how I can’t be their third, about how I’m scared I’ll always be the second-string quarterback. The B team. The practice squad. Whatever you want to call it.