by A. L. Wood
Denise
As I read the letter my heart sinks. There are blotches of wet drops on the letter. I take deep breathes and I squeeze and crunch the letter in my shaky hands. I look down at the luggage—she actually packed my damn clothes.
Is this really happening?
Is this what has become of us, our marriage?
Are we so far gone?
I look back at the note and then grab the luggage. One hand on each, a brown leather traveling bag that has my name engraved in gold on the side and a small carryon bag that I’ve had for years. I pause for a moment, wondering if this will be the last time I am ever in this bedroom when it is still ours, or if the next time I come back will be because I’m packing the rest of my belongings and it's now her room.
Before I know it, I’m kissing the boys on the head and telling them that I'll be back in a soon, knowing that it wasn’t true.
Denise doesn’t look at me. She says nothing.
“Hey, Sam,” I greet my boss while clocking in.
“Thanks for coming in on such short notice. Jen called in, something about catching the flu.”
“It wasn't a problem at all, whenever you need someone you can call me. I could use some hours.”
“They’re yours if you want them. You’ll be working with Stephen tonight; he's been here for a while and knows the ropes almost as well as I do. So if you need any help, go to him. I’m headed out in a couple hours, but Stephen will be running the bar in my absence.”
“Got it. Thanks again.”
I find Stephen by the bar—cute in a nerdy type of way. He has dark-brown hair, short on the sides and long on top. His hair tries very hard to cover his dark-blue eyes, and he blows at the stray hairs. He wears ripped up jeans and a shirt that says The Coop on the front.
He has sex appeal, but for some reason, I don't feel that drawn to him. I can see why girls would fan themselves when in his presence. The way he takes hold of a bottle and pours it effortlessly. The way he shakes a drink in a mixer.
I’d bet his fingers were talented too.
But he's not Marshall.
“Hey, Stephen?” I approach the man who's in command tonight.
“Maggie?” he asks.
“At your service.”
“Great, thanks for coming in.” His voice is gravelly and smooth. “I could use you behind the bar tonight. It's not so busy yet, so maybe you can prepare garnishes and fill the ice. By the time you’re done, I should be begging for your help.”
“All right.”
Taking Stephen’s direction, I begin to prepare drink garnishes. I slice lemons and limes, fill the cherry and pineapple bin, and then finally I fill the ice. Two hours have passed since I clocked in, and by the time I’ve cut and filled everything, and it's still not busy.
“Seems like an off kind of night, huh?” I say to Stephen who’s just made a customer a drink.
He rubs behind his neck, “Yeah, for a Sunday night it's kind of slow. You know what, I have a few things that need to be done in the office. If you’d just cover me I should be able to get everything done before closing time. If you need me just yell, though.”
“I’ve got this.”
I’ve always been a quick learner. I learned to walk by the time I was eleven months old. I spoke in full sentences by three, rode my bike without training wheels by four. Everything I’ve learned, I learned early and fast.
Except with Jake.
He was my one great mistake.
The worst kind of mistake.
Bartending, though, as nervous as I was on my first day, isn't that difficult to learn. Sure, I can't toss bottle in the air or do some fancy dance while shaking a drink, but I can pour liquor and beer like it's nobody's business.
The time flies by unexpectedly considering it's so damn slow.
Without any drinks to make or counters to clean, my thoughts drift to Marshall.
The way he smells, his sweetly vibrantly manly cologne.
The way he looks when he’s going over our labs, meticulously checking every step we took—his biceps flex underneath his sweater. I could watch him all day. The way he licks his lips when he's deep in thought. Slowly and methodically. Or the way he runs his hands through his short hair.
All of him fills me. It shouldn't.
I don't want him to.
But he does.
Thoughts of him consume me.
The warmth of him beckons me.
The entrance door slamming pulls me back to reality.
Thinking of the devil, I smile inwardly.
“How long will you be staying, sir?”
I don't know, honestly. Denise didn't give a time limit, but I don’t want to share that information with the hotel front desk staff, or anyone, for that matter.
“Is it possible to have an open stay? I could pay for a week at a time. I don't know exactly how long I will be here.”
The lady looks puzzled at my question. I see her glance to my ring finger where my wedding band resides, then she glances at my two bags. I’m not exactly hiding the fact that the situation sucks.
She smiles. “We have special rates, sir. How
about we do a month? We will bill a one-month stay and then go from there. Should you not stay the full month, we can refund any remaining days. Does that sound good?”
A month?
One entire fucking month?
Denise better not make me stay here an entire month if I'm paying the mortgage on that damn house.
I look back at the lady, reading her name tag. “Thank you, Mrs. Helen, is there anything else that you need from me?”
“Would you like to sign up for Hilton Honor Rewards? We can give you an additional discount if you apply and it gives you rewards for staying at our Hiltons,” she asks.
Normally I would say no, but with not knowing how long I'll be here, I might as well, so I agree.
“Welcome to the Hilton, Mr. Marshall.”
Hilton Hotels have always been one of my favorite places to stay anytime we’ve traveled—the rooms are always nice and spacious. As is this one. I power the television on for background noise while unpacking my clothes. I overhear the meteorologist say that a storm could be rolling in later tonight.
I know that feeling. A storm has rolled right into my life.
I make quick of my normal night's routine, showering, shaving, and now hopefully sleeping. Leaving just my boxer briefs on, I slip between the sheets.
Loneliness seeps in. I toss and turn uncomfortably; I’m guessing it’s because I’ve been used to sleeping next to Denise for so long. It’s hard to even try closing my eyes without her beside me. I missed her warmth. It’s hard to even try to close my eyes without her beside me.
Sleep evades me for hours.
Fuck it.
I throw on my Levis, an undershirt, and my grey cardigan.
I need a drink.
I need the sting of whiskey on my tongue, the burn in the back of my throat, and the warmth in my gut.
I need my friend Jack.
Jack Daniels.
Getting in my car, I head downtown. Finding a bar that is still open on Sunday doesn’t prove to be difficult. I knew it would be a long night so I went ahead and used my iPhone to send out an email to my secretary so that she knew to that my classes and all of my appointments were to be cancelled on Monday.
Downtown, I find a bar—it looks like a cool spot. Doesn't seem too busy, so I know I shouldn’t be bothered by anyone or have to wait long for my drinks. Haven’t been to a bar since Denise and I got married. Hell, Denise and I rarely drink. Only on special occasions like our anniversary or at celebrations. I walk into the bar and find a seat quickly near the bartender.
“What will it be, Slick?” I hear the young bartender ask me for my order.
“Jack Daniels, straight, no ice.”
“Whiskey man, you got it, brother.”
I began to sip on my whiskey as soon as he finishes pouring it.
“Dr. Ma
rshall, what are you doing here?” I hear a familiar soft voice say.
I turn to see that it's Maggie. “I just got an email notification saying that you canceled classes tomorrow and our lab appointment. Is everything okay?”
“Everything is fine, Maggie. Can't a grown man have a drink and skip class too? By the way, what are you doing here?”
“I work here,” she replies quickly.
“Oh.” As she looks at me, her gaze collides with mine. I can’t help but feel like prey to this young woman. I look away from her, dismissing her presence. This isn’t something I need right now. She stays in her place, leaning against the bar while I sit here in awkward silence. Grabbing my glass, I down what’s left. Which results in my face puckering from the whiskey burning my throat.
“Been awhile, huh?” Maggie smirks.
“I haven't done this in a while, no. Maggie, I didn't come here knowing that you worked here,” I blurt out. Not that I need to explain to her why I am here in the first place. I owe her no explanations.
She walks around the bar and begins pouring the same drink I just finished. “Then stop being a bitch, acting like it bothers you. Do what you planned on doing when you walked in here. You came here to forget. Have another drink.” She slides me another glass of Jack Daniels. This time, though, it's practically a full glass.
She grins at me. I don’t know what it is, but a part of me likes the attention.
I grin back at her before gulping the entire glass. “Oh my God, that burned. Felt good, though.” Jack made me forget the pain of losing her.
“Easy, Professor, you’re beginning to have a little fun,” Maggie says out of the side of her mouth. She’s pouring a drink for another patron while peeking looks at me.
She’s attractive, like every other time I’ve seen her. She has her hair up in a ponytail, a tight white V-neck shirt, and jean shorts. I lean over and see that she’s also wearing converse sneakers. Strange how the younger generation finds my generation’s style of clothing cool or hip to wear. What's vintage though really? Calling quality and true style chucks vintage should be blasphemous. Sneakers don't need all those swooshes and or colors to be stylish.
I must be losing my mind. Lord, I'm going on tangent about clothes. I need another drink.
“Maggie, let me get another,” I call out to her.
“Another one, Professor? Are you sure you can handle another?
“There isn’t enough whiskey in the world that I can't handle tonight.” I smirk.
She pours me another demon shot, same as before—almost full to the brim.
I begin studying the bar, taking in who all is here. I hold my glass in my hands, babying the whiskey so that I don’t get drunk too fast. I see some familiar faces in the crowd. All students that I’ve seen around campus at one point or another. Some older people, not quite my age, probably graduate students. All of them chatting.
“This bar doesn’t seem to be too popular, huh?” I ask Maggie.
She giggles. “It's Sunday Dr. Marshall, what bar is popular on Sunday nights?”
I laugh. “I guess you’re right.”
I continue to size up the bar. Old rustic wood frames the entire building on the inside. Wooden beams have lights wrapped around them to give a warm ambiance, and then I remember that I have been in this bar before. I was still a freshman, with the entire basketball team after our first final four visit. We lost our first time but we decided to go out anyway, to celebrate that we had made it that far. I was underage, but that didn’t matter. People bought shots for me left and right. I drink from my glass of demons again; the burn approaches my lips first then makes its way down my throat. With each sip, I slowly begin to feel each worry peel away.
In the corner, I notice a Juke Box, so I walk over to it. I see a gentleman sitting in a booth beside where the music machine is sitting and I ask him if it still works.
“Yeah, man, they only have it powered on on Sundays because it's slow. Other than that, it's usually a live band that packs the house.”
The buzz of alcohol starts flowing through my veins, slight dizziness taking over me. I collect myself and take note to drink slower. I start flipping through the songs, wanting to find something feel-good to play.
The juke box allows you to pick three songs in a row. I scan their impressive playlist. I choose Metallica, Steve Miller Band, and Lynyrd Skynyrd. All classic hits. Pressing play, I walk back to my chair at the bar.
Metallica kicks on first. I get over excited as I know he is about to just kick the shit out of that juke box when the drums take over. Something about Metallica just puts me in a good fuck-it kind of attitude.
“How about one more, Marshall?” Maggie asks, smiling as I sit back down.
“Whoa, I’m not that drunk, I’m still Dr. Marshall or Jackson to you.” I grin at her playfully.
“Oh, I see. I know it's been since … probably since the dinosaurs that you had a drink so I was testing you.’’ Satisfied with my response, she slides another glass down the bar.
As the night progresses, I get closer and closer to my maximum limit. Maggie and I talk for what feels like hours, my playlist playing on repeat in the background until someone else’s takes over. We laugh, a lot. Enjoying the conversations.
It’s freeing. I feel like I can be me around her. I don’t have to be cautious with what I say or do. I can let my guard down completely.
“Last call, Prof,” a guy calls out to me from behind the bar. Maggie grabs a wet wipe from behind the counter and starts cleaning up. “You can go home,” the same guy who told me it was last call tells Maggie.
I finish my last glass then close out my tab with the other bartender. I stand up, slide the stool in, and begin to leave when Maggie stops me. “I’m sure you should be driving.”
“I’m positive I can manage to get to the hotel by myself, Maggie. I’m not a child,” I scoff.
“It’s not about you being an adult, Marshall, it’s about you being a responsible one. You’ve been drinking for hours, and I’m not going to allow to get behind the wheel of a vehicle.” Maggie reaches her hand inside my pocket, fishing for my keys. She doesn’t find anything in the first pocket so she moves to the next.
As she digs her hand into my front pocket, I feel her fingers slide against my cock. She must recognize what she’s touching because she does this a few times before removing her hand with my keys.
“Hey, Stephen, you sure you’re okay with me leaving?” Maggie asks the other bartender.
“You’re fine. Get out of here.”
“All right. I’m going to bring Marshall home then, he’s drunk.”
Maggie tugs me outside, pulling on my cardigan. “Wait! You can’t drive me home, Maggie, I can just drive myself.”
“Oh, really?
“Really.”
“Why don’t you take a look around us?”
Fuck.
Shit.
Three cop cars line the street. I see a couple officers walking up and down the block observing people.
I exhale. “All right, you can drive me to my hotel, but you’ll have to get a ride home from there.”
“Show me where your car is, and I’ll drive you.”
“It’s just up here; I had to park on the side of the road.”
We find my car easily and Maggie gets in the driver side while I linger standing with the passenger door open.
“Just get in the damn car, Dr. Marshall, I’ll take care of you. What hotel?”
“The Hilton.” I sigh.
Maggie starts the car and begins driving me back to loneliness.
“Hey, Stephen, you sure you’re okay with me leaving?” I make sure to clarify that he's okay with me running out so early when there's still so much that needs to be done with closing up.
“You’re fine. Get out of here.” He tells me.
I’m relieved, because I'd rather Marshall not drive home when he's had so much to drink.
“All right. I’m going to bring
Marshall home then, he’s drunk.”
I tug Marshall out behind me, his feet feel like lead as he's trying to stop me.
“Wait! You can’t drive me home Maggie, I can just drive myself.”
“Oh, really?”
“Really,” he says with such clarity.
“Why don’t you take a look around us?” I laugh inwardly. Cop cars are all around us. This is a bar, after all, and one of the most popular near campus. Of course there would be police officers milling about and this fool wants to drive himself.
He sighs with resignation. “All right, you can drive me to my hotel but you’ll have to get a ride home from there.”
I ask him where his car is parked.
“It’s just up here; I had to park on the side of the road.”
We find his car and he hands me his keys. I slide into the driver's seat while he just stands outside the passenger side.
I yell at him to just get in the car. I ask him what hotel he's staying at, and luckily, it's not too far.
He's quiet for most of the ride, and I’m okay with that.
A lot is running through my mind too.
Thoughts of Jake and how I hope he's not trying to find me. About how much I feel that he's broken inside of me.
How I wonder if I will ever be normal.
I think about how attracted to Marshall I am.
How I didn't think I would ever be attracted to someone else again. To want to be that close to someone, especially after Jake broke me.
Or that I shouldn't act on this pull Marshall and I have.
It's too electric. Too dangerous, and volatile.
He could have the ability to take me under once and for all.
He could drown me.
Breaking free from the thoughts polluting my mind, I break the silence. “Do you mind if we stop at a convenience store before I drop you off? There's a few things I need to get. I promise it’ll be quick.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I take the first right, knowing that a store sits not far down the road.
Pulling in, I put his car in park. “Need anything?”