Chapter 4: Drinking with Disaster

I didn’t sleep all night, and my meeting with the client the next day was a total disaster. I showed up with bags under my eyes, wearing yesterday’s wrinkled shirt, and couldn’t focus on anything but the pounding in my head.

Not only did the client chew me out, but the whole trip ended up being for nothing. I left their office feeling like a zombie, clutching my laptop bag like a lifeline.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" My boss called—he must’ve gotten a complaint. His voice blared through my cell, echoing in my aching skull.

"Nothing." I tried to sound normal, but my voice cracked.

"Oh, nothing? Then if you see a building, a river, or a lake nearby, just go jump in. Don’t hesitate." His sarcasm hit me like a slap.

"Sorry, Mr. Carter." My throat felt tight. I stared at the ugly carpet, wishing I could disappear.

"Don’t call me Mr. Carter, just call me Grandpa from now on. The client just cussed me out like I was his grandson. Are you trying to kill me?"

I sniffed. "Sorry."

"Seriously, you’re a tech guy. I know your skills—this was a simple problem. How the hell did you screw it up so bad?" He sounded more exasperated than angry, and that made it worse.

"Mr. Carter, Emily cheated on me. I caught her yesterday." I blurted it out, unable to hold it in anymore. There was a long pause on the line.

Silence on the other end. I could almost hear him processing, the gears turning.

"Wait, your fiancée cheated on you, but shouldn’t you at least finish your job before getting depressed? She didn’t cheat on me—why are you taking it out on me?" His attempt at humor landed awkwardly, but I could hear a flicker of sympathy.

"Sorry."

"Fuck your sorry. What’s the use now? You don’t need to come to work anymore." My heart dropped at his words. I braced myself for the worst.

Another silence. Then, softer:

"I’ll give you seven days off. Come back when you’ve sorted yourself out. Keep your receipts for the hotel and food—I’ll reimburse you when you get back." He hung up before I could thank him, leaving me staring at my phone, tears stinging my eyes again.

For the next few days, I didn’t go anywhere. I just holed up in the hotel, curtains drawn tight against the world, or found a bar to drink myself stupid, then crawled back to the hotel. The city outside felt like it belonged to someone else.

Today, as soon as I walked into the bar, I saw a familiar face—the wife from before. She was hunched over the counter, half-empty glass in front of her.

For some reason, I sat down across from her. Maybe it was the misery, or maybe I just needed someone who understood.

She squinted, saw it was me, and grinned—a lopsided, tired grin.

"Bartender... get... get another glass." Her speech was slurred, her eyes glassy.

She poured me half a glass of vodka, then poured herself half, and downed it in one go after clinking glasses. Her hands shook, but she didn’t spill a drop.

"So... you look down on me, huh..." she muttered, eyes glazed over.

I thought she was still mad about what I said the other day, but then she slurred, "Are you... babysitting goldfish, or what?" Her words tumbled out, nonsensical. I realized she was already deep into the bottle.

I snapped out of it, finished my drink, and she refilled my glass. The burn felt good going down, numbing my thoughts for a second.

The atmosphere was awkward as hell. I had no idea what to say. The bar’s jukebox played some country breakup song, and the bartender wiped down the counter, pretending not to notice us.

"What’s your name?"

"Logan Young." My voice sounded unfamiliar, like it belonged to someone else.

"Damn, my ex-boyfriend had... had the same fucking name." She snorted, half-laughing, half-crying.

My name isn’t that common. Guess this woman was really drunk. She stared at me for a moment, as if trying to fit me into some memory she couldn’t quite reach.

"That guy—what a piece of shit."

So, she’s calling me a piece of shit by association. Nice. I almost smiled.

"My husband’s a bastard too. Damn, why do I always end up with assholes?" Her voice cracked, and for a second, I saw the pain behind her bravado.

"And you are...?" I tried to change the subject, shifting in my seat.

"Fiona." She drew out the syllables, like she was testing how it sounded in her mouth.

Great, a Western name. I wondered if it was her real name or just something she told strangers at bars.

We chatted about nothing for a while, and soon she was passed out on the table, her head resting on her folded arms. Her breath was slow and deep.

I nudged her, made sure she was just asleep and not dead, and wondered where I should take her. Leaving her here felt wrong, but I didn’t know what else to do.

"Sir, excuse me, could you settle the bill first?" The bartender leaned over, voice polite but insistent.

"Huh? She didn’t pay?"

"No, sir." His smile was practiced, but I could see the amusement in his eyes.

I tried nudging Fiona, but she was out cold, mumbling, "Nudge your mother." The bartender smirked behind his hand.

Seeing the bartender’s professional smile and barely suppressed smirk, I was too embarrassed to ask them to wake her up to pay. I could feel the other patrons’ eyes on me.

"Uh, how much?"

"Total is $1,200, sir, but you can just pay $1,180. Cash or card?" I choked on air. Was I buying the whole bar? His tone didn’t change, as if this was totally normal.

"C-c-card." Maybe because I was drunk, my tongue was a bit tied. I fumbled for my wallet, cursing under my breath.

Every time I pressed a number on the keypad, my heart ached. That was my hard-earned money, now evaporating into overpriced vodka and bad decisions.

"Uh, can you guys print—never mind." I almost asked for a receipt for work, but realized how bad that would look. Mr. Carter would have an aneurysm if he saw a $1,200 bar tab.

I carried Fiona on my back. She was dead weight, didn’t help at all, and I was sweating buckets. Her head lolled against my shoulder, her hair tickling my cheek.

Where the hell was I supposed to take her? The sticky summer night air hit me as I staggered outside, searching for options.

The worst part was, she kept breathing hot air in my ear—ticklish and annoying. I muttered curses as I made my way down the block.

I set her down on a bench, loosened my collar, and took a break. My arms ached, and I felt the sweat soaking through my shirt.

Looking at her flushed cheeks from drinking, and the necklace peeking out at her neck, a weird thought popped into my head. For a split second, I wondered what it would be like to just let go, forget all the rules.

I quickly turned away, shaking my head hard. No way. No matter how hot she is, she’s not worth $1,200 a night. I was broke enough already.

As I turned, I saw a hotel across the street, brightly lit, practically calling my name. The sign promised free Wi-Fi and HBO, but all I cared about was a bed to drop her on.