WineBar: The Complete Story

by Alexis Angel

  “No effervescent tabs, but I did get some aspirin and some ibuprofen.”

  I’m about to help her bring everything to the coffee table when I notice Emily’s phone buzz. She must have left it here; it’s still plugged in and everything.

  I grab it as quickly as I can to move it out of the way, trying not to look at the new text message on the screen…but I can’t avoid seeing it.

  I see the contact name Jogger. Obviously, some dickhead who met her while jogging.

  But that’s not the worst part. Oh no, it gets worse. The message itself is so fucking short that I can’t look away from the phone fast enough to ignore it:

  Are you up? Wanna fuck?

  I don’t have a good track record when it comes to accidentally seeing messages on Emily’s phone. For Clarissa’s sake, I act like I didn’t just see that ridiculous text that has me ready to blow a fucking gasket, and I put the phone down on an arm of the couch, trying to play it cool.

  But who the fuck is this asshole? Obviously, he’s fucking Emily—which makes me want to bash my fist through a wall—but what kind of shit is that message anyway?

  “Okay, ready?” Clarissa put the water and bottles down on the table already while I’m still looking at Emily’s phone and fuming.

  Should I be fuming? I should definitely be fucking fuming…right?

  “Okay, let’s get going.”

  I take a second to check on Emily one more time. She’s still sleeping on her side and still looks like she’s on the mend—but now I’m feeling nauseous.

  I try to appear calm and collected. Clarissa’s had enough stress tonight. We leave the apartment and wander our way out of the building, tired and silent.

  That text is the frosting on tonight’s shitty cake of absurdity, but if I’m letting everything else go, I can let that go too.

  Except that I can’t.

  What if I’ve got this all wrong? Have I made this into more than it really is?

  I mean, technically, I guess Emily’s still single. I know she’s not that into getting serious, even if it seems that way sometimes. But still, I thought—well, it doesn’t fucking matter what I thought, apparently.

  Suddenly, I can’t get away from here fast enough. I don’t like all the crazy thoughts going through my head, and I sure as fuck don’t know what to do about them.

  Clarissa pulls out her phone as soon as we get outside, and she opens some ride-share app to get a taxi.

  “Do you need my help tomorrow? Cleaning up or something?”

  I inhale deeply and make a snap decision.

  “No, I won’t be around tomorrow. You’re off the hook. I need to get out of town…just for a few days.”

  I wait with Clarissa until her ride shows up, and then I start wandering, having no fucking clue where to go from here.

  Chapter 48

  Emily

  I open my eyes. The sun’s not usually this bright in here…

  Wait, am I waking up from a nap? I’m on the couch, and I’m under a blanket—something’s not normal.

  I spot my phone a few inches away. It’s unplugged for some reason. I reach over to grab it…and oh, hell fucking no.

  “Arghgth!”

  I don’t know what language I’m yelling, but a sudden bolt of pain across my forehead is making me speak in tongues. I stop moving, and that helps a tiny amount. At least it’s enough to keep me from yelling again.

  I take a couple minutes to stare at the ceiling. The pain subsides from indescribable torture to a brutal headache. I can move my neck now, enough to look at the empty room without making it worse.

  The sunlight is intense. It must be early afternoon at the latest. Mysteriously, there are medicine bottles on the coffee table.

  Do I have a fever or something?

  I look back up at the ceiling. I don’t think I have the flu, just an earthshaking headache that’s also making me nauseous.

  My mouth is like a fucking desert. And when I move my tongue around, I taste…what is that?

  Whiskey.

  It’s all starting to come together, piece by fragmented piece. But who was I out with? Why was I drinking whiskey?

  I need to brush my teeth. I also smell like whiskey, and…is that barbecue sauce? Oh, shit. Right, that’s where I was.

  Why the hell don’t I remember anything? My phone may hold some answers.

  I lay a small couch cushion on my forehead. It doesn’t cure my headache, but it helps. I feel like I can check my phone without throwing up.

  I grab it and switch the screen on. Success!

  But just looking at my phone’s screen for a split second causes a spike in headache pain. Fuck.

  I shut my eyes, and a memory from last night comes roaring back…I was drinking whiskey, and I did a shot with…who the fuck was it?

  I keep my eyes closed for a few minutes to dial back the intensity of my headache. I remember getting ready for the barbecue, taking a taxi, fucking in the bathroom—mmm, that was nice…

  …and then I hung out and did a shot with Kirk’s ex-girlfriend.

  That’s the last thing I remember. What I don’t remember is why she was there, or why I was with her and not Kirk.

  What’s her name again?

  I open my eyes, still gripping my phone. I try to check the time, but when I turn on the screen, all I see is a text notification.

  Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  Jogger, you’re the last damn name I want to see right now. And that message? Really? WTF, dude, I barely know you. All we did was talk for like ninety seconds.

  “No more giving guys my number while I’m out for a run.” At least, that’s what I try to say quietly to myself. It ends up sounding something like “noogjmklsdfkoutjskad run.”

  But fuck. Fucking Jogger. This is not my first message from him since that run I barely remember, but I can shut down this bullshit real fast by blocking his number and deleting him from my contacts.

  I close my eyes again. This headache’s relentless, but I really want to remember more about WineBar’s barbecue. I start drifting back toward sleep.

  Miranda! That’s it.

  The memory of Kirk’s ex’s name jolts me back awake. I was drinking with her, which is already weird enough. I’m also still holding my phone a foot above my face. I’m glad I didn’t fall asleep like that.

  It’s totally the worst when you fall asleep and drop your phone on your face. Am I right?

  I turn the screen on again. My list of contacts is on the screen from earlier. Miranda’s name is right there, underneath where Jogger used to be.

  I sit up; my headache’s almost completely gone.

  Do you know that feeling, early on during a hangover, when you still feel sort of drunk and a little more courageous than usual? I don’t know if everyone experiences that, but at this moment, I have no qualms about hitting the fuck out of the button to dial Miranda’s number.

  Miranda’s phone starts ringing…I hope I’m able to talk now.

  “Hey, Emily!” Miranda picks up after two rings, answering like I’m her best friend. Forget losing a night, I feel like I have amnesia with months or years just fucking gone.

  “Uh, hey. So…some barbecue last night, huh?”

  “Oh, for realsies!”

  Is she for realsies going to talk like that? I think my headache’s coming back.

  “You can say that again,” I mumble. I reach for the aspirin bottle on the coffee table, hoping Miranda spills some details without me having to press.

  “How much do you even remember, Emily?”

  Fuck, I must’ve been noticeably drunk. Miranda’s also kind of laughing as she speaks, which means something embarrassing happened. Now I need to rely on her to brief me on the godawful truth that my brain can’t recall.

  “The last thing I remember was taking that shot with you, Miranda. If you could fill me in, that would be lovely.”

  “Okay, where do I begin? Well, first of all, I had to bring you back
to your place.”

  “You took me home?”

  “I had to. Kirk wasn’t going to at that point.”

  I realize that my hand is frozen in midair, reaching for the aspirin. The aspirin that Miranda apparently left there. I let my hand drop down to the couch.

  “Why wouldn’t he?”

  “Oh, Emily. You really don’t remember, do you?

  “I already said I don’t. Please, just tell me what happened.”

  “So, okay, we were drinking, you remember that. Then, hmm, do you want the highlights?”

  “I…guess?”

  But I’m starting to think, No, maybe I really fucking don’t.

  “So, there was the keg stand—that looked fun—and you kissed Kirk’s cousin before coming onto Kirk hardcore in front of everyone. You also showed him your tits, also in front of everyone. Then I think you disappeared for a while, but you came back to put your panties on the grill. Do you remember why you did that? I’m curious.”

  “No.” I feel numb. Like my entire body feels displaced at the moment. I can’t process.

  But as much as I want to deny this is real and then wake up and realize this is all just a nightmare, I know that it’s very fucking real—my new, horrible reality.

  “Were WineB…Kirk’s parents there? Did they see any of it?”

  “Oh, yeah, a lot of his family saw the whole thing. In fact, you asked Kirk’s dad about his dick size!”

  What?

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  I want to hurl my phone across the room and watch it break into a hundred pieces against the wall. Instead, I just hang the fuck up on Miranda and squeeze the phone uselessly in my hand.

  I sit frozen on my couch, motionless and stunned. I stay there, frozen in place, for what could be a few minutes or maybe longer.

  Months? Years? Fucking decades? I’m not keeping track of time anymore; I’m just thinking about the damage, the devastation, my own embarrassment, and Kirk’s embarrassment in front of his family.

  Eventually, I look at my phone again. Nothing new from Kirk, or anyone.

  Suddenly, I feel caged in. I can’t stay like this any longer. I send a text to Kirk, just asking how he’s doing today.

  I wait a few minutes and send another, asking if everything’s okay.

  I start pacing. Holy shit. I can’t stay like this, wondering and waiting.

  I need to talk to Kirk. I call his number, and I immediately get a voicemail message.

  No ringing, no resolution.

  Nothing.

  I don’t know what Kirk’s thinking, or how ruined everything is, but I’m really fucking scared that I’ve fucked up royally. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

  Chapter 49

  Kirk

  Yes, the wood logs look polished and fake. Plus, that wall-hanging bearskin that came with the cabin is ridiculous. But none of that matters, since I fucking love it here.

  I love the drive down, I love taking my rifles out for hunting, and I love sitting on the lake for hours with just a fishing line, some live bait, and a cooler full of beer. When I need to get away from the city, my place in the Sierra Nevada never disappoints.

  I’m just getting back from another marathon day of tranquility at the lake. The sky is turning lilac, and the crickets are starting up. It’s officially my third night here.

  I know that it’s getting to that point: I need to start thinking about what drove me here.

  I’d love to stay for weeks, enjoying the quiet and supplying myself with all the food I need. I don’t have to check emails, respond to texts, or talk on the phone. With no internet or cell phone signals, I couldn’t even if I wanted to—it’s fucking paradise.

  As refreshing as it is, I know I can’t keep being a coward. Three or four days is what I gave myself to figure shit out.

  One day, when I have everything in my life figured out and taken care of, I’ll drive out here and just fucking stay as long as I want. Today, that’s not a luxury I have.

  I stride through the unlocked cabin door, all my supplies slung over my left shoulder. I caught my limit for the day, not that they ever enforce that shit. I take my time to put everything away properly—tacklebox, poles, bucket, oars, cooler, freezer packs, fish—it takes a good ten minutes, which I try to use to think, to deliberate.

  After everything is done right, I look in the fridge for a real beer. The cheap stuff is good for fishing, but it’s time to get serious. I have a couple decent stouts, but those are too heavy right now, a few IPAs, but fuck those, a four-pack of canned chardonnay…

  One reason I can’t stay up here for too long are my bars. They still need me. They are built on my acumen and my taste, but it’s not an empire yet.

  I pull a can of wine out of its plastic ring. Canned wine’s an obvious trend, but they still need me to point this shit out before it’s months or years too late.

  It’s barely starting to get dark. I formulate a plan: find a glass for the wine, bring the rest of the four-pack with me and maybe a decent bottle, go sit on the deck to drink, look at the sequoias, and think.

  Sounds like a sold plan to me.

  I put down the wine can and see a stray gray tabby sitting outside the window and staring at me. I don’t even know which fucking cabinet has the glasses. I open a random door and see a set of pint glasses.

  Why did this have to happen with Emily?

  Fuck.

  I close the cabinet and pop open the can to start drinking. Fuck going outside and getting contemplative. I need to figure this shit out.

  The problem is, it feels like it’s already figured out.

  The barbecue did nothing to change how I feel. During this trip to the cabin, thinking about her only brings up positive feelings—feelings like optimism, and excitement, and…

  Happiness.

  There’s no other way to describe it. I just don’t know if I’m thinking clearly. Feeling this away about anyone is new to me.

  I’m fucking clueless about all of it.

  I take my wine can to the faded brown leather armchair. The chair and the whole living area usually sees no use from me.

  I sink into the worn leather seat and sip from the can. I stay there, sipping until it’s inky-black nighttime outside and what’s left of the wine is room temperature. I stand up to turn on more lights and get another drink.

  On my way to the fridge, I see the same stray cat through the window. Fuck, I’m not figuring out anything tonight. I need a couple more days.

  I take out a pint glass and grab one of the stouts from the fridge.

  If Emily wants to find me, she knows where I am. Clarissa has instructions to fill Emily in on my little retreat if she asks. I don’t expect to see her here, but I do want to wipe the barbecue slate clean and, if Emily’s still into it, give the whole thing another chance.

  I methodically pour the double-chocolate stout and give the window cat a slight nod. I still need to sleep on the Emily situation to be sure that I’m sure about it, and to think about the other issues…like my father.

  I don’t have the internet here, but I do have downloads of the latest financial statements from my businesses. I’m thrilled to walk over to the rolltop desk and turn on the Oxford desk lamp, which bathes the cabin in a light that’s soothing and classy as fuck.

  I always bring the latest statements with me, just in case. This might be the first time I’m really looking at them here, though. I fire up my laptop and open the folder, checking out the first file and looking immediately at the revenues.

  I look at revenues, costs, and profits, looking over each line item again and again. I take big quaffs of beer, drinking it much faster than the wine. I keep checking everything, making sure I’m reading it right.

  I open up some past statements, look them over, and look over some even older statements I still have. I’m glad I have all this, because I’m seeing patterns now that weren’t that obvious before. Good patterns.

/>   Things are climbing steadily, as they should be, and even more steeply than I realized. There’s no reason to worry about my place in the family business, at least not financially. I just need to keep doing what I’m doing and putting more away in high-yield accounts for safety.

  I turn off the lamp. I need a couple more days to be certain, but the numbers don’t lie.

  Staying with Emily looks like the right decision.

  Chapter 50

  Emily

  Two days.

  It’s been two fucking days, and I still haven’t heard a word from WineBar. Like, what the fuck.

  I’ve wracked my brain the entire time, trying to figure out what could have happened at the barbecue that would account for this radio silence, but I’ve got nothing.

  Miranda is the only person I know that also knows Kirk enough to help me get in contact with him, but she’s his ex. And even though she was nice at the barbecue, at least from what I remember, and also nice enough to help me get home afterward, I still feel a little weirded out about the whole thing.

  Like, do I really want to call her and ask her why I haven’t heard from Kirk?

  Not really.

  There’s something at the back of my brain that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  Like someone else I may have met that could help me figure this shit out. His sister maybe? I think I met her at the barbecue. I think.

  But I don’t even remember her name, so how am I supposed to check in with her? And what if I’m not even remembering that correctly?

  I mean, from what Miranda said, what few things I do remember aren’t even accurate. Let’s see, I do remember arriving, and I most definitely remember the epic bathroom fuck. Like, who could forget that?

  Just the thought of it has me so fucking wet and horny.

  Ugh, and now I’m distracted thinking about that.

  I want to call him and ask him what happened. And I really fucking want to know why he hasn’t called in two days.

  Did something awful happen that I don’t remember? Like, did we break up?

  No. Surely if that were the case, then Miranda would have told me.

  “Aaahhh!” I scream out in frustration. Why is this happening to me?