strikes ten, I finish off the last of my Jack and Coke and order another. Normally at this hour I’d be on my way home to Joanna. But tonight, as usual for the second Friday of every month, she’s out with Rachael.
On a typical night, they walk to the distillery for dinner and the first round of drinks. Now that Joanna’s pregnant, Rachael drinks her share. Afterward, they catch an Uber into the city, and then Christ knows what. They used to like to use their girls’ night to paint hideous cityscapes on canvases while drinking obscene amounts of wine. Really just an excuse to get plastered, which was fine by me. How they entertain themselves is none of my business. Since Joanna hasn’t been able to drink for the last six months, I’m sure she simply enjoys the time apart—I know I do.
Her nights with Rachael give me alone time to do whatever the hell I want.
And tonight, I want to drink without feeling like I’m doing something wrong. If my gaze lingers on a beautiful woman, I won’t have to explain myself. I want to be able to order a third, or a fourth, drink if the urge strikes me, without feeling as if I’m being monitored.
It’s not like I drove. I stopped off at home to change clothes, walked the two blocks over, and plan to stagger home.
Every table at the Point Reina Distillery is packed, especially the ones near the windows overlooking the sand and surf. A full moon looms over the black sea, illuminating the waves with a rippling white ribbon.
With a view like that, it was a miracle my seat at the end of the bar was open.
“Bad day?” Don remarks as he slides my glass of Jack and Coke across the bar. It stops right in front of me. “That should help.”
I’ve always liked Don. He’s a hipster in his late thirties with a thin mustache, sharp eyes, and a dirty sense of humor. He’ll go shot for shot with anyone who challenges him, and never falters on an order.
“Bless you,” I say, burying my nose in the drink. “It’s been the day from hell.”
I was late to work that morning, thanks to an accident on the bridge. The meeting I’d scheduled first thing had to be pushed back, which in turn ruined the scheduling for the rest of the day. I slammed down a sandwich for lunch and haven’t eaten since. It shows in the shake of my hands.
“Tonight it’s me and you, and that bottle of Jack.” I drink up. “Joanna’s out with Rachael.”
“Sounds like she’s feeling better.” He shakes a martini, pours, then hands it to the waitress waiting at the end of the bar. “That’s good to hear.”
“What do you mean?”
Joanna’s not sick. I was just home, and she wasn’t there. Her car was parked in its usual stall next to mine. And I talked to her on my way home from work. She was fine. Going out with Rachael, she’d said, as usual.
“Rachael was in earlier. Sat right over there.” Don points to a table tucked in the corner with an ocean view on two sides. “When she showed up alone, I asked where Joanna was. Said she was sick as a dog. Holed up at home in bed.”
“Joanna wasn’t here? Are you sure?”
“Positive. Rachael came in alone,” he says, drying a tall glass with a dish towel. “She stayed for a while, ate clam chowder and fish and chips, and drank two glasses of wine. I picked up the table since Monica wasn’t on the clock yet. It was before the dinner rush.”
“Odd,” I say.
Because when I’d called, Joanna told me she left home hours ago.
Don takes another drink order from the waitress leaning over the bar and goes to work mixing. “Maybe she caught up with Rachael later, once she was feeling better.”