by Carter Blake
Maddie doesn’t even slow down when we get to the stairwell off the bridge. She doesn’t slow down until we get to the Grimaldi’s entrance.
Thankfully, since it is a cold-as-fuck day, and it’s an off hour, there isn’t the usual Grimaldi’s line stretching down the block.
“It was worth it to beat the rush, wasn’t it?”
“Totally,” I respond, still slightly winded. “I can probably skip the gym this week.”
“Bullshit. I know you won’t—not after we split a large pie.”
We get our brick oven pizza to-go, eating slices out of the box on our trek back to Manhattan across the bridge.
“Fuck, I didn’t mean to sleep so late.” I haven’t been keeping track of the time today, but I’m surprised to see dusk already starting to set in as we walk west.
Finished with her last slice, Maddie leans up to give me short, sweet kiss on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“For sleeping late?”
“For this weekend. It’s been...well, it’s been amazing.”
There’s a sparkle in Maddie’s eyes as she looks up at me.
“Maddie...it’s been amazing for me, too. You’re amazing. And I can’t wait to do this again.”
“Hey, if you ever want to come by my place, I can cook you dinner.”
“I’d love that. Would tomorrow be good?”
“Sure.”
“Are we being serious? Because I totally want to see your place.”
“Yes, Ethan.”
I deposit the empty box in a recycling can as we exit the bridge into Manhattan. Maddie and I stop for a slow, smoldering kiss.
“I have to go back home and turn in early tonight, though. I’ve got a lot of crazy shit going on at work this week, and I have to start preparing.”
I don’t know what crazy shit Maddie’s referring to, but I’m reminded of my own possibly related crazy shit.
And I want this weekend to last a little while longer before I have to go back to it.
“Do you want to swing by Lush Republic for a drink first?”
Maddie looks up at the sky, starting to frown a bit. “Okay.”
Maddie hugs me tightly, like she’s saying goodbye for a long time—or for good. I hug her back and keep my confusion to myself.
The mood changes. Our walk to Lush Republic is silent.
Before we get there, I decide that I’m going to need to talk to Maddie about Switzerland. While I don’t know what’s suddenly bothering her, I have a feeling it’s related.
Charles is tending bar again, and he has two pints of stout ready when we sit down.
Maddie is quiet as she takes her first sip.
What I should do is ask her what’s wrong.
But, for some fucking reason, I mention the S-word instead.
“They’re giving me until Friday to make a decision about Switzerland.”
Maddie picks up her glass and puts it down, robotically, staring into space.
“Maddie, it’s a lot of money. A lot.”
I could fucking kick myself for saying all this. But, I’m telling her the truth about what I’ve been thinking.
“You’re fucking serious, aren’t you?”
“Madeline...I don’t know everything you know...”
“You don’t. Or do you?”
Maddie’s eyes are on me now, and tears are forming.
Fuck, fuck, I’m fucking up.
“I don’t. Seriously. I’m just trying to explain my point of view...”
“I told you, Ethan. Weren’t you listening? And I told you again to stay the fuck away!”
“It’s just...two years, Maddie, and I’d never have to work again. Even if I was supporting...a...”
The sight of tears running down Madeline’s cheeks hits me like a freight train. I don’t give a shit about the company, about Switzerland, about any of it.
Right now, the only thing I care about is the pain I see in Madeline’s eyes.
The pain I put there.
It’s not the first time, either. I’m such a fucking asshole.
“Maddie...forget it. I’m not going to do it. I just...I’m so sorry.”
“How could you even consider it?”
Seeing Madeline cry is tearing my soul apart. All I want to do is help her, but I feel so helpless.
I reach out to touch her on the shoulder, but she backs away.
“Don’t touch me. Don’t ever fucking touch me again. I don’t ever want to see you again.”
She’s not yelling, I don’t think anyone else even hears her.
But I don’t care.
I won’t lie—I’m confused. I know it’s a touchy subject, but I didn’t expect her to react like this.
That still doesn’t make me feel like any less of an asshole.
Madeline leaves.
I stay at the bar, unable to speak, unable to move.
Just two minutes—if that—and a few words.
That’s all it took, and I managed to irrevocably fuck up the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Ethan
That OutKast song is playing again.
It’s been an hour or so since Madeline left. I’ve been doing very little—okay, nothing—but sit here silently since then.
And Charles has taken notice.
“What’s wrong, Ethan? This song doesn’t get your fuckin’ blood pumping?”
“Not tonight, my friend. It’s a bit too happy for me right now.”
“Interesting. You see this as a happy song?”
“It sounds happy to me.”
“I see.”
Charles already has a shot glass set up. As I’ve said, I think the bartenders here are psychic—although, my mood is probably not very hard to read tonight.
Charles fills the shot glass with bourbon. “Doctor’s orders,” he instructs.
I take the shot.
“This song sounds happy and dance-y to me, Charles. Why do you think it’s not?”
“Oh, you can dance to it. All I’m saying is that it’s not as happy as it sounds.”
“You might need to pour me another shot after that sentence.”
Charles does just that, and I take it down.
“I mean the lyrics aren’t what I’d call happy.”
“I don’t know, Charles. Like this part right here...”
“You mean when he’s talking about being very cold?”
“That’s not exactly how it goes...”
“Well, this bar doesn’t have the licensing for me to recite lyrics, since that’s technically a performance.”
“So...very cold. It doesn’t sound sad to me.”
“It doesn’t?” Charles pours me a third shot.
“I’m going to save that one for later, Charles. If you don’t mind...”
“Hey, we’re open till four.”
I look at the shot and sigh. Going back to my apartment, alone, holds zero fucking appeal for me.
“I know it’s a busy Saturday, but I might just stay until you close tonight...or pretty late, anyway.”
“You can fucking stay after we close if you want. I think you should read the lyrics to Hey Ya sometime, though. And think about them.”
Fuck it—I pour the shot down my throat.
“I might just do that, Charles. Stay after close, that is. I’m not doing any fucking homework, though.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Could I get another one of those stouts? Just put it on my tab.”
“It’s on the fucking house tonight, Ethan.”
I shake my head.
“Is it that obvious?”
“Hey, I have no idea what’s going on. But, I know that when shit hurts, it really fucking hurts. That’s the universal truth.”
My phone, sitting on the bar, starts vibrating.
“The universal truth, eh?”
“Pick up your phone. I’ll get you that stout.”
Charles wanders off, but I do as he says. I
pick my phone up off the bar, but I’m too late to answer the missed call from Ryan.
It’s Saturday night, if it weren’t obvious enough from the noise and density of the crowd forming around the bar.
Saturday nights, in recent months, bring an inevitable call from Ryan.
It doesn’t help that a lot of our old crew have moved out of the area.
Or have gotten married.
But, for the most part, it’s the two of us who are still out here every fucking weekend—starting at Lush Republic then moving on to other bars, other clubs.
And fuck, I’ve fallen pretty far out of the game myself lately. These days, even in the middle of the fucking weekend, I’m often working.
Or, for a couple perfect Saturdays, seeing Maddie.
My regretful sigh must be louder than I thought, because Charles takes it as a cue to deliver both my beer and another shot.
I start with the shot. It helps quell a bit of the nausea I’m feeling.
Yes, I’m disgusted with myself for somehow fucking up two chances with the most incredible woman I’ll likely ever meet.
This time, it was quite fucking definitive, too—there’s no coming back from my screw up tonight.
But that’s just it: there’s no coming back, so what are my options?
There’s no going back to my previous existence of the hedge fund manager down the hall, because soon, there’s not even going to be a fucking hall.
There’s a break in the music—which also interrupts my thought process.
I can really hear the Saturday crowd growing behind me, though. It sounds like there’s a ton of fucking people here already.
When Charles’ iPod kicks back on, I take another sip of beer and jump back into weighing my choices.
Even if I can’t be the hedge fund manager down that particular hall anymore, I still have the option of finding another hedge fund, with another office in another hall.
The city had plenty of all that shit—but the idea of just jumping to another fund doesn’t exactly fucking fill me with enthusiasm.
And if I can’t muster the motivation for that, starting my own hedge fund is probably out of the fucking question.
Fuck, I’m getting tired just thinking about it.
And somehow, Charles senses this. He zooms over to pour me another shot before zooming back to his mounting tidal wave of customers.
“Is this helping me think, you think?”
Charles is too far away to hear me, so I just take the fucking shot.
So, Basel fucking Switzerland.
That’s my other option.
I could’ve avoided all this by rejecting this option earlier, but it ain’t earlier anymore.
This is now—and now, it might be my best bet.
I fucking hate that it is, but…
Another little tremor of nausea starts to creep its way in, so I take another sip of stout to keep it at bay.
Charles’ iPod is playing some old-school hip hop, the type of stuff that came out before most of the patrons here were even born.
Fuck, I’m not old enough to be feeling old.
But I am old enough to at least try to make the right decision, even if it’s a decision I never wanted to make.
Basel fucking Switzerland.
I could go there for two years, and I’ll never have to deal with any of that shit again. If I need to channel my workaholic tendencies into something after I retire, I guess I could learn to fucking paint or something.
Whatever hobby I decide, I’ll have a big head start on most of the other retirees. With thirty years of practice, I might get decent at painting.
Or I could extend my time in Basel by four or five years. Then I could just buy some original Rothkos and Klimts instead of trying to be the next Grandma Moses or some shit.
Fuck, I hate that I’m fucking thinking like that.
If I go, it has to be two years. No getting greedy.
Two years, and it’ll be over. That’s more than I can say about any other job.
It’s going to fucking suck no matter what, but that’s true of all my options now anyway.
Goddammit.
“What’s up, Ethan?”
Charles is hovering right in front of me, ignoring the giant crowd everywhere else in the bar.
“Isn’t it a busy Saturday?”
“They can wait, and we’ve got some other staff. Seeing your face right now, I think you could use someone to talk to more than you could use another shot.”
“You’re a good man, Charles, but it’s fine. And you’re too fucking busy for that, anyway.”
“I’ve got a minute. Sometimes a minute can help.”
Doing a quick scan of the room, I catch a glimpse of Stacia expertly pulling a pint at the bar before flitting back to waiting tables like some sort of magical sprite.
Maybe Charles does have a minute.
“I’m just weighing some options, that’s all.”
“Can I make an assumption”
I can’t stop myself from sighing heavily. “Sure.”
“They all suck, right?”
“Do you have to be psychic to work here or something?”
“No, but you do notice things. And I’ve been there…well, I don’t know exactly where you are, but I’ve got an idea. And…yeah, it sucks.”
“What idea’s that, Charles?”
“I don’t want to make any more assumptions…but yeah, it’s the fucking worst, and it hurts like hell, but it gets better.”
Yeah, but…
Maddie.
“I appreciate it, Charles. And, well, I don’t know.”
“I know it’s hard to believe right now, but believe me: you’re going to be fine. Of course you will. You’re Ethan fucking Barrett.”
Charles disappears right after his pep talk, and I’m left staring at my warming pint of stout.
At this point, it looks like Ethan fucking Barrett’s going to Basel fucking Switzerland.
Ethan
My phone’s vibrating across the bar again. I can’t put off answering it forever. I mean, I could, but...
“Hello?”
“Yo, you hitting up the bar tonight?”
“Who’s this?”
“Dude, you know who it is.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t get that. Who did you say it is?”
As shitty as my mood is, I may be starting to smile a bit.
“It’s Ryan.”
“Oh, Ryan! Why didn’t you say so?”
“Because every fucking smartphone has caller ID. Besides, who else would be calling you?”
“Okay, got your name. Now state your business, please.”
“Dude, come on. You going to Lush Republic tonight or...”
“I am at Lush Republic. Didn’t you go to an Ivy League school?”
“UPenn. But that doesn’t mean I’m smart.”
Now there’s definitely a smile breaking through, at least for a moment. As fucking shitty as things are right now, I need to appreciate the things I do have.
“I’ll say. See you here, Ryan.”
I swing around on my barstool to take in the whole room.
It’s fucking Saturday, alright.
I’ve known this spot for years—I can’t even remember when I first started going here—and its popularity must’ve doubled or tripled in the past couple months.
Or, judging by the crowd tonight, the past couple weeks.
I’m sitting in Ryan’s usual spot right now. I sure as fuck hope that he’s as good at finding me in a crowd as I am at finding him.
Not that it’s difficult, but...
On a night like tonight, he might never find anyone.
Maybe he’ll find someone else, though. This place is getting packed, and the crowd is mostly women tonight—I’d say sixty percent, at least.
It’s the irony of fucking ironies that meeting someone—for a fling, for a date or anything—is as low a priority as could be for me.
On t
he other hand, if Ryan’s priorities are what Ryan’s priorities usually are, then he would be smart not to find me this evening. As much as I’d appreciate the company tonight, it’d be nice to see Ryan find some happiness.
It’s not like he hasn’t dated, but I can tell he’s searching for something more than just a date or a hookup. Something that’s all too hard to fucking find—and some people never find it at all.
And some people who are lucky enough end up fucking it up.
Twice.
“Charles!” I wave my hand.
Charles is busy, naturally, but he makes time to quickly pour me another shot before going back to making industrial-strength cocktails for the Saturday crowd.
“Is this really gonna help?”
Charles is well out of earshot, as is everyone else. I’ll have to make this decision on my own.
The shot sits unused and unloved on the bar. I’m sure I’ll take it eventually, but there’s no reason not to space things out a bit tonight.
And what happened to the music?
Okay, there it is...wait.
Fuck.
Really?
Sleepwalk. By Santo and Johnny.
The one goddamn song I associate with Maddie. Except for Hey Ya, but I already fucking heard that one tonight.
Do I have any choice but to take the shot now?
I gulp it down—but seriously, what kind of music is that for a downtown bar on Saturday night?
Hell, I’m one to talk. I’m sitting here by myself on a Saturday—although these aren’t exactly ordinary circumstances for me.
Fuck, why does it have to be that song? This is some Casablanca shit.
“Charles!”
By the time Charles has poured me another shot—and I’ve ingested said shot—that mournful, slide guitar instrumental is finally over.
“And not a moment too soon.”
“What’s that?”
I spin around at breakneck speed, mostly because I’m so startled that somebody heard my fucking comment. Before spinning around, I knew it wasn’t Ryan, because Ryan doesn’t sound like a woman in her mid-to-late twenties.
“Oh, nothing,” I respond to the woman with short, blond hair and leather-patched jeans in front of me.
“I’m Josie.”
That was out of nowhere. I spot Ryan waving to me from the middle of the growing sea of bar-goers.
“Excuse me, Josie.”