Distracted by her attire, I asked, “Where did you come from? Work?”
“No. Home.” She reached over the bar, lightning fast this time, and plucked a cherry out of the condiment tray.
I narrowed my eyes on her. “I said, don’t do that. It’s unsanitary.”
“Whatever happened to going out for a beer? Watching a football game? You are my only normal friend,” Kaylee fretted, ignoring my scolding and popping the cherry into her mouth. She reserved the stem to twist between her fingers.
“Nash likes football.”
“Ex-boyfriends don’t count. Why must everyone insist that I live their version of my best life? Why, in this entire world, are you the only one of my female friends who isn’t suggesting quinoa and meditation? What if my best life is pulled pork and video games?”
“This is not true. You have plenty of female friends who are not of this opinion. Plus, you don’t like video games and I thought I was a mole-woman.” I loved Kaylee, but she had a tendency to get carried away by the emotion an idea inspired—like, say, rage—rather than look at all the facts. In short, she loved to react.
“It’s like they enjoy being miserable,” she continued raving like I hadn’t spoken, “and then being smug about the depths of their enlightened misery.”
Laughing, I leaned against the counter behind me. “Maybe these people are not miserable. Maybe they do sincerely love quinoa and meditation.”
“Impossible.” She dismissed my statement with a flick of her wrist.
“And maybe you should stop judging other people’s life choices.”
“You always say that. But one day, I’ll be a judge, and then it’ll be my job. I need to practice being judgmental now so I’ll be ready when the time comes.” Kaylee grinned.
“Okay, your honor, smug enlightened misery aside, I just don’t understand wanting to change something about yourself you already like. If you like your hair, don’t change it. If you don’t like your hair, have at it.”
The song switched to Frank Sinatra’s version of Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas just as the bell over the front door jingled, announcing one or more new customers.
“Be with you in a sec.” I called without looking toward the sound, keeping my eyes on Kaylee as I reached for a few drink menus and cocktail napkins.
“See, I knew you’d say that, too.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Your statements are unsurprising, and I am unsurprised by your unsurprisingness.”
“Gee. Thanks.”
“You’re in a rut, Abby.” Now her eyes turned soft. “You do the same thing every day. You wear the same thing every day. You eat the same thing every day. The only thing you change is the color of your nail polish and your hair cut.”
“And look how happy I am.” I glanced toward the door to count the newcomers, but found only a single, solitary man, already sitting in a stool at the far end of the bar closest to the door.
A huge, enormous, colossal mammoth of a man. He was so big and tall, the rest bar seemed to shrink in comparison.
Great. Just . . . great.
"Who is that? Is he a regular? Why do you look so irritated?” Kaylee glanced between my face and the man, keeping her tone hushed even though we were too far away for him to overhear our conversation.
Even so, I also lowered my voice. “It’s just, we’re less than an hour until closing and he’s not a regular. Convincing non-regulars to finish up and head out can be . . . annoying.” And he was big. And he was male.
This wasn’t always the case, but—in my experience, maybe nine times out of ten—a big, burly guy coming into the bar so close to closing didn’t typically want a quick drink.
Her gaze stayed on him, assessing. “He’s hot though, right?”
“Is he?” I grumbled, putting back all but one drink menu and one cocktail napkin.
“Uh, yeah. Very. And he looks familiar.” She placed her elbow on the bar, narrowing her eyes as she leaned an inch toward him, as though to see him better in the dim light. “I thought you had owl vision? Who does he look like?”
The truth was, other than noting this person’s size and gender, my vision was blurry with visions of my future and tonight’s likely unpleasant conclusion: Ingrid and I coaxing him to leave, failing, and then having to either call Walker at home or the security company.
I didn’t care if this stranger was objectively the hottest man in the world. After tonight I had three nights off. Anyone making me work late my last shift prior to three nights off was a blobfish.
“Whatever.”
My voice must've hinted at my thoughts because Kaylee tore her attention from the man, her eyebrows raised expectantly. "Why do you always sound so irritated when there’s a hot guy? Why do you dislike hot guys?"
"Hot guys have hot guy problems, which are like first world problems on steroids," I mumbled.
"Come on, everyone likes hot guys. It's biological. There's nothing you can do about it. You have no choice."
I would've argued with her, told her that I had nothing against hot guys in general, but she made a sound of protest before I could speak.
"Abby.” Her eyes were full of sympathy. “Eventually you're going to have to date someone."
Ugh. Not this again!
“Do I, though?"
I’d tried dating. In fact, I’d even tried marriage. Everything about it was a disappointment, on so many levels. This topic was why Kaylee and I currently shared just a car instead of a car and an apartment.
"Yes.” She looked so earnest and concerned. “You can't let one bad experience—what? Eight? Nine years ago?—dictate the rest of your life."
"Can't I, though?" I tucked a drink menu under my arm.
"You can't. You must get back on the horse."
"Must I, though?” I tapped my chin.
"Yes you—" Finally recognizing my attempt at deflection, she snapped her mouth shut and gave me a flat look. "Your dense barrier of sass notwithstanding, you know getting out there, putting yourself out there, would be healthy."
“Why can’t you let me live my best life, Kaylee?” I tossed her words from earlier right back at her. “Maybe my best life is pulled pork and video games.” Legit, I loved both pulled pork and video games.
She scowled but her words were teasing, “This is a good time to tell you, I, and others, consider your contentment with life a personal attack.”
I laughed. "Here, let me go serve this hot guy real fast and then you can continue to beat this dead horse that you still insist I take for a ride."
Utilizing her cherry-snatching-ninja skills, she grabbed my wrist before I could move away. “Wait. Wait.” Her eyes darted to the end of the bar and then back to me, whispering, “What if, instead, you flirt with the hot guy?” Kaylee indicated to the man with her chin, like I wouldn’t know to whom she referred. The man’s presence felt like it inhabited one tenth of the available space in the bar, there was no missing him.
I blinked at her. “Why would I do that?”
She seemed to search my face. “If you flirt with him, I won't bring up dating again for—for . . . a month.”