“How many times did she ask you that?” Brett asks while his fingers tug on the Budweiser label. It shreds a little more and another part of the label falls to the counter.
“Man, it was only a couple of times. But it was like she didn’t believe a word I said: like I was building a different life behind her back while she was at home making mac n’ cheese for Brianna and David.” My fingers slide down the cold Labatt Blue bottle as I shake my head. Tina Turner’s, What’s Love Got To Do With It, plays in the background of Jackson’s.
This bar, Jackson’s, is a dingy joint with dark lighting. The women here walk by us with dresses too short, and wear pants and shirts that are too tight. My eyes casually pass over a blonde woman as she walks past us wearing a black dress and stilettos.
My thumb pokes at the label of the bottle. I’ve been fighting this fight for a decade. I’m sick of it.
“Maybe you should buy her some flowers, or something? Make sure she feels appreciated for the stuff she does. Puts up with your belly-aching and all?” Brett says as he throws his head back and takes another slug of his beer hiding his smile.
“Who are you, Dr. Phil?” I snicker at Brett. I swivel around on my bar stool adding in, “and, who’s side are you on anyways?” I ask as I peer over at my best friend. I’ve known him since eighth grade when we went to school together and played hockey. We lost contact for a couple of years when he went off to College. But now he’s back. Brett was also the best man at my wedding. I’ve had lots of good times with him. I can tell him almost anything.
My phone buzzes. I flip it over from the bar counter.
The text reads:
Kaitlyn: Where are you?
“Look,” I say while shaking my head. “I can’t even go out for a drink with a friend before the warden’s checking in on me.”
Brett’s eyes quickly pass over the text message. He half nods in my direction when he finishes reading the message.
“Well,” he says standing up, “I’ve got to get home. Jessica needs me home by 8:30 to watch the kids. It’s her book club night.”
I snort at him saying, “What the hell, man? Who’s in charge of your relationship?” My mouth twitches into a half smile.
He looks past me, smiles, and says, “Make no mistake. It’s her.”
“Fine,” I say as I pull out two twenty bills and shout at Mike, “hey, is that enough?”
Mike moves towards us, flicks his eyes over the money, and says, “Yeah. That’s good. Want change?”
“Nope, we’re good.”
Brett and I walk out the door together and I pull out the package of cigarettes in the pocket of my jacket and light a smoke. While holding the cigarette between my lips I mumble, “Want one?”
“Nope,” Brett says with a wave of his hand. “I’m trying to quit.”
My phone buzzes again. “Who’s that now?” My cheeks twitch in response to the annoyance. I wave my hand at Brett that holds the cigarette and say, “Go ahead! It’s probably Kaitlyn again.”
Brett gives a laugh, nods and says, “Okay, we’ll see you later.” Then he turns and runs through the snow to his car.
My phone shows this:
457-892-3675: Are you coming over tonight?
I type: Yeah. Leaving Jackson’s now. Be there in 10 minutes.
My fingers punch at the keys. After I’ve sent the message I delete both of them. Then I take a slow drag on my cigarette.