A Guy Walks Into My Bar

by Lauren Blakely

  Soon, the season starts in earnest, and his team wins the first game. I call him briefly from the bar to congratulate him.

  “Great game,” I say when he answers.

  “If you were here, you’d go out with us to celebrate, right?”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “You don’t want to hang out with my teammates?”

  I laugh. “No offense to your teammates, but it’s you I want to see.”

  “That is the perfect answer,” Fitz says, then he kisses the screen.

  When he’s home, he calls me again. The time difference works for us, since it’s three in the morning for me and I’m getting into bed.

  He asks about my night at the bar, and I tell him about all of the customers and how the jukebox has gone over. We do what we do—we talk.

  “I have three days off,” he says, so much hope in his voice. “Starting next Monday. Ten days from now.”

  I know what he’s going to say next. I know he is forging full speed ahead. But I want to be the one to offer, rather than to be asked.

  “I’ll come see you,” I say.

  His grin is wider than it’s ever been, his eyes brighter. “You will?”

  “I will. I want to. More than anything.”

  “I’m getting you a ticket right now,” Fitz says, walking through his apartment, presumably on the hunt for his laptop. “You cool with that? With me getting it? You better be, because I have a fuck-ton of miles, and I am spending them on you. Just say yes.”

  I remember that word. Surrender.

  Is this what surrender is? Saying yes even when you worry you’ll succumb to the mistakes of the past?

  Maybe it is.

  Maybe I don’t know.

  Maybe the past no longer matters.

  All I know is it feels good to say yes to him. It always has. “I already said yes. It’s kind of all I can say to you.”

  He punches the air. “I can’t wait. I’m going to build a time machine so it can be next week.”

  “Don’t be silly. All you need to do is learn how to apparate. That’s a much more useful skill.”

  Fitz groans in happiness. “Do you know when I started to fall in love with you?”

  I laugh. “No, I don’t.”

  “When I learned you liked Harry Potter too. And now, do you know what that ‘apparate’ comment means?”

  “What does it mean?”

  “That I’m in love with you even more,” he says.

  When he says that, a warm, hazy feeling spreads over my body once again.

  This is happiness, and I want it.

  And I’m starting to see how it’s possible to have it.

  But I shouldn’t make assumptions.

  Pretty soon, though, I’m going to need to figure out how to take that step. I have a question to ask him, and I have to pose it carefully because any future happiness hangs on his answer.

  THE NEXT DAY

  Also known as the day I make my plans.

  43

  Dean

  The river is a comforting constant in London, and that’s where I go with my dad on Saturday before I go into work.

  We walk alongside the water, Dad reminiscing, me making plans.

  “I used to bring you here when you were young,” he says.

  “So, like a few years ago,” I tease.

  “You’re still mostly young.”

  “I’ll be thirty-two soon. So old. Does that mean I should start doing that whole it’s my twenty-ninth birthday for the fourth year in a row thing?”

  He chuckles lightly, then sighs contentedly. “And you always loved it, coming to the river,” he says, sliding back into nostalgia. “We were here every weekend when you were six, seven, eight.”

  “I did?” I ask, eager to hear more. I remember this, but not from his point of view.

  “You just wanted to be near it. Of course, you had so much energy. You were always moving around. I had to run you like a dog along the water.”

  Rolling my eyes, I laugh. “Thanks, Dad.”

  “Your mum always came with us.”

  I nod. “I remember.”

  He stops as we near London Bridge, and he points to it. “The two of you would stand there on the bridge and make wishes over the water.” There is no recrimination in his voice, only the warmth of memories.

  “I remember that too,” I say, a little softly, as the images of those moments play before my eyes. “I wonder what I wished for.”

  He sets his arm around my shoulders, his voice a little more serious. “I know what I wished for.”

  I look at him curiously, a strange lump forming in my throat. “What did you wish for?”

  He squeezes my arm. “For you to be happy.”

  And that lump grows tighter, a knot now clogging my throat, and I don’t know if I can speak. Or if I could, what I’d say. I bite the inside of my lip because I have a feeling about what’s coming.

  But he’s undeterred, determined to keep on. “And I have a feeling that wish is coming true.”

  I furrow my brow, head pounding with the intense turn he’s taken. I’m not sure I can handle it, so I try to sidestep. “I’ve been happy.”

  He shakes his head. “That’s not what I’m talking about, and I think you know it.”

  I look at the water, thinking about certainty and uncertainty, things we know, things we don’t know. The chances we take. This time, I face the reality of what I’m going to do head-on. “I know what you mean, Dad.”

  “Do you though?” he asks. This is a true father-son talk. No more cheek. No more sarcasm. It’s all been washed away.

  I exhale deeply. “I do know.”

  He doesn’t let it stand at that—typical of him. He’s fixed me with a stare that won’t let go until he’s sure I know my mind. “So, what are you going to do when you see him next week?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” I won’t be able to dance around it either. I’ll have to say more, say everything, when I see Fitz.

  Determined, Dad waits for me, finally prompting, “Well? Are you going to go after your happiness?” His mouth relaxes into a tiny smile that grows when it spreads to his eyes, where it becomes a gleam of possibility. “Are you going to make those wishes come true?”

  I draw a deep breath, then ask the hardest question of all, the one that weighs on me. “Will you be upset if I go?”

  “No.” He yanks me in for a huge hug. “And I’d be shocked if you didn’t.”

  And then, a tear slides down his face, and somehow that makes the choice crystal clear.

  A FEW DAYS LATER

  Also known as the day I decide to speed up time.

  44

  Fitz

  If I thought time passed slowly before, it’s nothing compared to the snail’s pace at which it moves now that I have a fixed date to anticipate.

  Now that Dean has a ticket to New York.

  I call him when I wake on Tuesday. “I’m going to see you in five days,” I say when he answers. He’s running in the park, looking sexy as hell in a T-shirt, the waistband of his running shorts visible at the edge of the screen.

  “You are, and you better have your arse at the airport to pick me up, because I’ll need my lips on you the second I’m on American soil.”

  I scoff. “Like I wouldn’t pick you up. What do you take me for? Some guy who doesn’t know how to romance his boyfriend?”

  That’s the first time I’ve called him that. Boyfriend. But it feels right.

  Dean’s quiet for a moment as he runs, staring at me on the phone instead of watching the trail. “I’m your boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” I say emphatically. “You are. Don’t even try to get out of it.”

  “I wouldn’t dare.”

  I stretch in bed, the sun beating through the window. “Do you want me to make plans to take you to . . . where was it you wanted to go? Empire State Building and Statue of Liberty?”

  He laughs. “Do you think we’re actually getti
ng out of bed?”

  Stroking my chin, I pretend to consider this, then answer truthfully. “No.”

  “You’re very smart, Fitz.” He peers a little more closely at me on the screen. “What are you up to today?”

  “Early morning paintball. Feel free to shudder in horror.”

  Dean does.

  “And then I’ll work out with Ransom, grab some lunch. We don’t have another game till—”

  “Thursday.”

  I shake my head in appreciation as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. “You’re going to need to wear my jersey next.”

  His eyes bug out, and the cackle that comes from his mouth is epic. Dean actually stops running, sets his hands on his thighs, and tries to stop laughing. When he looks at the phone again, he arches one brow. “In the span of two minutes, you’ve called me your boyfriend and said I need to wear your jersey?”

  I shrug hopefully. “I’ll take one out of two?”

  “You can have the first. I’m not doing the second.”

  “Fine, be that way,” I tease. “Are you working today?”

  “Yes, I need to deal with the books this afternoon. Then I’ll just be serving all night long.”

  “Call me later. I’m going to hit the shower.”

  “C’mon, take me into the shower,” Dean says as he resumes his pace.

  “You say that like I’d even consider anything else,” I say, accepting his challenge as I angle the phone so he can see I sleep naked.

  “Fitz,” he says in a warning.

  “What?” I play dumb as I stroll into the bathroom, giving him a full view of my morning semi.

  Dean swivels the phone screen, showing me the scenery behind and beside him. “Do you not realize I’m in the park?”

  I shrug as I reach the shower, stretch my free hand in, and turn it on. “Doesn’t bother me.”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. You’re mine. Just mine. No one else gets to see you naked. Boyfriend rules.”

  That word. I love it. It’s a great word, but it doesn’t fit entirely right, and I’m not sure why. “Fair enough. But I will be getting off to you in the shower.”

  He winks at me. “I know.” Then he slows down, bringing the phone closer to his face, maybe so no one can see me. “See you soon. Also, I fucking love you.”

  I tell him the same, then I say goodbye, set the phone down, and step under the stream of water.

  As I shower, I mull over the word boyfriend while my mind races back to that last evening in London at his flat, when we shared the shower and his things.

  My brain rushes ahead to the next morning at his table, when he made me breakfast.

  And how I felt something like déjà vu, but for the future. Forward vu.

  Only then, the image was hazy, incomplete. Now, I can see that breakfast more clearly. I see it day after day after day.

  And my heart goes wild, pounding madly against my chest.

  The picture fills in, and I understand what I was already starting to want before I left London, before I even realized it.

  I know now what I desperately want, and it’s not to count the days till I see him. It’s not for him to be my boyfriend. It’s not for me to call him later.

  I rinse the soap off, turn off the shower, and grab a towel.

  It’s not any of those things.

  It’s to do for Dean what I’ve done for my family. Because that’s what you do when you love someone.

  You don’t do things halfway.

  You’re either all in, or you’re not.

  First, I go to the airline website. Then, I text my buddies and cancel paintball. Next, I call Ransom. “I can’t work out today.”

  “Cool. Everything okay?”

  “Yes,” I say as I get dressed, pulling on clothes quickly. “I need to do something. I need to do it right now.”

  “What is it?” There’s no teasing in his voice—I must sound as serious and determined as I feel.

  I tell him my plan, and he lets loose another whoa. Then he says, “Clock’s ticking. You better go. Do you need a ride to the airport?”

  I laugh. “I can get a Lyft, but I appreciate the offer.”

  “Just sounded like fun. Are you sure?”

  “You want to ride with me to the airport?”

  “This is epic, so yes, I kind of do. I’m in Murray Hill, so I’m on the way. Also, there’s a pizza place out by LaGuardia that was just reviewed on Barstool Sports, and I wanted to check it out.”

  “Of course you have an agenda.”

  “I do, but your agenda is awesome-r.”

  “Meet me in thirty minutes. I need to make a pit stop.”

  After my errand, I call a Lyft and we pick up Ransom. On the way, I give him the rest of the details.

  “Not gonna lie, I had a feeling you’d do this,” he says.

  “You did?”

  “You’re not happy like you used to be.” When we reach the airport, he says, “Go get your man.”

  “That’s the goal.”

  When he hops back in the car, he gives the driver the address of the pizza place, and I go to get on a plane.

  45

  Fitz

  I’m five time zones away from where I started. It’s nearly midnight and I have to return to New York tomorrow, but tonight I’m standing in front of The Magpie.

  The first time I walked into this bar more than one month ago, it changed my life. I hope walking in here tonight changes everything again.

  I take a deep, fueling breath, like I’m prepping to go on the ice.

  But this is nothing like going into a game. Nothing like the playoffs. I know how to prepare for a face-off. I’ve done it since I laced up my first pair of skates when I was four.

  The mental preparation for a hockey game, where my job is to stop the opponent, is grueling in an entirely different way.

  Nothing has prepared me for this.

  Nothing except the last weeks of wanting, having, missing, loving, and needing.

  Needing him more than anything else in my life.

  I shove aside the nerves and push open the doors. I step inside and look around. Jazzy, sexy music floats through the air, and women in dressy shirts and men in jeans are everywhere—the bar, the tables, the booths.

  My eyes go to the bar, hunting for the most gorgeous man I’ve ever known. He’s at the other end, mixing a drink. He’s tall, sexy, and mine.

  My heart slams against my rib cage like a dog scrabbling to be set free. It wants to bound across the floor and jump up on him and slather him in kisses.

  Damn good thing that organ is in a cage where it belongs.

  Dean slides a beer glass to the customer in front of him, then flashes a smile and says something. Maybe a thank-you, or giving him the total on the tab. Maybe a quip or a piece of advice.

  I can’t make it out from here, of course, and he hasn’t noticed me.

  Good.

  That gives my jackhammering heart time to settle down.

  Though slowing its wild pace seems impossible now that I’ve set eyes on him.

  Seeing my man affirms that he’s everything I need. Seeing him is exactly as I hoped, and somehow even better. Because I feel so certain about this. More than I’ve felt about anything else in my entire life.

  I walk to the edge of the bar, and when he happens to glance my way and spots me, he does a double take, not even sure it’s me. Then he does a triple take. He tries to school his expression but fails miserably, a wild grin spreading across his stunning face.

  My Englishman heads down the length of the bar, his eyes on me the whole time as I walk to meet him at the end.

  He stops. I stop.

  A bar is between us.

  His lips still curve in that grin, and he goes first. “So, this guy walks into my bar…”

  “That’s what I came here to tell you. I came here to tell you a story,” I say, trying to calm my frenzied pulse.

  He’s quiet, taking in every word like he wants e
verything I have to say. “Tell me a story.”

  I draw a deep breath, so damn ready for this. “So, this guy walked into a bar one night. He went there to get a drink with his sister, but he was completely blown away by the hottest, sexiest man behind the counter.”

  Dean dips his head, smiling, and maybe trying to hide how big that smile is. He lifts his face and meets my eyes again, his hands gripping the edge of the bar. “Go on.”

  I tap my chest. “And this guy was completely determined to get the other guy’s name, to get his number, to get him to go home with him. To get his man. Because he had to have him.”

  Dean can’t stop smiling—his grin glimmers across his eyes. “He was very determined. That was one of the things the other guy found endearing about him,” he says.

  Hope wants to run away with me, but I continue the story at a steady pace, not wanting to rush it. The story of us. “And this guy kept finding ways to see the other guy. His sister even engineered one of those times, and it was worth it because it led to the best first kiss of his life.”

  His grin grows wider. “What do you know? I heard the same thing. Best first kiss of the other guy’s life too.”

  His words embolden me. I would fly across the ocean again and again to hear them over and over. “And they spent a week together. They went to this cheesy bar where they were supposed to hit some softballs, but they got distracted. They had tea together, and they spent a lot of time in hotel rooms, and on Tower Bridge, and on a riverboat, and in the park, and in a club. And . . . they completely fell in love.”

  “They did,” Dean says, and the laughter of people nearby barely registers. I only have eyes for him.

  As I look at Dean Collins, it’s not desire behind this glowing warmth inside me. It’s love. It’s hope. It is my absolute certainty in how I feel. I have never felt this way with anyone else. I don’t think I could feel like this with anyone else. How could I, when everything belongs to the man in front of me? Every ounce of emotion, trust, love, and hope—they all reside with him.