Page 2 of Carter

I grunt a laugh, then sip my drink.

“Hell, maybe it doesn’t even matter.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They go dark, slightly unfocused as he stares at his glass. The bartender fills it without asking—definitely vodka based off the Grey Goose label—and he reaches for it tentatively, like maybe he knows he should stop but can’t help himself.

Does he have a problem? Is he an alcoholic? It’s none of my business. Even if he is, he’s an adult. But I do wonder what it would be like if someone was there to tell my brother Hollis not to do drugs or take a sip of alcohol before it’s too late.

I should tell this guy to stop. It’s clear he’s had enough, and I’ve seen too many people in literal pieces from driving while intoxicated. I’m off duty, but I’m neverreallyoff duty. I can’t shut off my cop brain. Can’t remove the images of blood and limbs spread out across dark roads while a car is wrapped around a tree. Can’t forget the faces of parents who learn that their child has just died due to driving under the influence, even though they aren’t old enough to drink. I’m haunted by this shit, day and night, so yeah… I should tell him to stop.

“Maybe,” he says forcefully. “Maybe it’s pointless. All of it. Who knows when it’ll all end, right? One second you’re here, and the next—” He snaps his fingers and picks up his glass. “You’re gone. Just like that. Best to have fun while you can, right?”

His voice is lower, almost far away. He’s talking to himself more than me. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but maybe it’s something else. I reach into my inner jacket pocket and pull out a business card that I slide over to him.

His eyes flick to it, brow furrowing slightly as he takes it in. His gaze drifts to me, and I try not to pay too much attention to his eyes. Noticing things like that are part of the job. You learn to take in everything in a second. But those eyes… they look like something that could haunt me too, if I let them.

Green eyes. Dirty blond hair. Five-ten. Athletic build. Around one-eighty. No obvious tattoos, scars, or other distinguishing marks. Clean-shaven. Black T-shirt. Worn jeans. Black boots. A black, puffy jacket hangs off the back of his chair with no brand label on it that I can see.

His features are pronounced, similar to all the models you see on the covers of magazines. For all intents and purposes, he’s a good-looking guy.

I tell myself I notice all these things because it’s just what I do… but there’s something in my chest telling me it’s a little more than that.

He’s attractive.

Not just in general, but I feel it.

“What? Are you a psychiatrist or something?” he asks as if the card has offended him.

“Cop. One who’s talked too many people off ledges.”

And witnessed his father kill his mother and then himself when he was only a kid.

Of course, I don’t tell him that. I don’t tell anyone that. The only people who know are the ones who were there and dealt with it.

“I’m not suicidal,” he says defensively, staring at the card as if it’s about to attack.

“Okay,” I say simply. “Give it to someone who needs it then. Never know when it’ll come in handy.”

“I’m not,” he whispers, his voice cracking.

Now it seems like he’s about to cry. His shoulders sag and he shrinks in on himself.

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I say. “Just trying to help.”

He says nothing for a while, and I focus on my drink, finishing it and getting another.

“I probably should be,” he says, breaking our silence. The bar is loud enough, as bars usually are between the music, and the people playing pool and having too much to drink. “After what I went through, I should be.”

Oh. He means he should be suicidal. I thought he meant he should be offended.

“I can drink to that.” I lift my drink out to him, and he grabs his but looks at me before lifting it.

He blinks slowly, thick dark lashes framing his eyes. His brows are neat and trimmed, like he takes care of them—or maybe he’s just so lucky to not grow hair in all the places you’re not supposed to according to society, like me. Finally, he lifts his drink. Our glasses clink. We sip and put them back down. As if that’s all supposed to mean something.

I’m not a doctor, and I don’t know this guy, but people who are depressed don’t usually take care of themselves like this guy does. At least, not those I’ve seen. All the people I’ve talked down,andthose I didn’t, always had one thing in common.

They looked like hell warmed over. So bad that I felt it. And with each one of them, for a moment, I understood their pain. Because I’ve been through pain too.

But I also know enough about mental health to know that it isn’t one-size fits all. Everyone experiences it differently, and it’s very possible this guy is really good at hiding the shit he’s dealingwith. Maybe because he’s trying to convince others. Or maybe he’s just trying to convince himself.

“What if you could meet someone in a bar and… just know they were it? No games, no swiping, no months of pretending. Just one look, one conversation, and you’re done. You go home together, and suddenly the silence doesn’t feel so heavy. Because you’re not alone anymore,” he says so quietly I hardly hear him. In fact, I don’t know if he wanted me to hear him.