Page 73 of Sand in My Boots

Seated at The Drift bar, my whiskey on the rocks is already whiskey with a side of water. Couldn’t tell you how long I’ve been sitting here, not drinking the drink. I’ve had to swear off Bushwackers for the time being. I can’t bring myself to tackle those memories. The one of Juli asking what’s in it. Her first sip. Her drinking mine when she wanted more but couldn’t handle an entire drink.

Dragging my eyes away from the drink sweating on the bar, Ivan, the other bartender, rests his elbows on the bar top.

“I’m fine,” I choke out, clearly lying.

“Right. And I’m POTUS. Try again.”

For a Thursday night, the bar’s not busy. Then again, it’s still early. I finished my day around five and headed straight here. The silence in my empty townhouse does little to comfort me.

My mouth opens, ready to spill my guts, but something stops me. Instead, I offer, “I wish things could be different.”

“What things?” Of course, he won’t let me get away with a half answer.

“All the things.” It’s a half-assed answer, and his eyebrow peak calls me on it. “You ever wish you’d made different choices in life?”

“Sure. Doesn’t everyone?”

I nod. “I suppose that’s true.” I pause, not sure exactly what I want to say, how to describe what I wish were different about my life.

Knowing how miserable I am, would it have been better not to have gotten involved with Juli last week?

Nope. That’s one thing I wouldn’t change if I had the power to do so.

Do I wish I had more to offer her in terms of a relationship? Absolutely. But how I’d go about being the man she deserves, I don’t have the first clue where to start.

“This about Langley’s kid sister?”

I debate lying to him, but he’d eventually get me to tell the truth. And he has eyes. He saw us here in the bar, witnessing first-hand how close we were.

“Yes.”

“She seems like a great girl. From the few interactions we had. Preston tell you to leave her alone?”

“No. As long as I don’t hurt her, he’s okay with it. Wants her to be happy.”

“Where does she live?”

“Outside of Atlanta.”

“She not want a long-distance relationship?”

“Why would she?” I gulp the watered-down whiskey.

“It wouldn’t have to be forever. Short-term, it could work if both parties are willing. If it makes you less wretched than this.”

“Fuck off.”

Ivan’s hands raise in the air. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Merely a suggestion.”

“It wouldn’t ever work. We come from two different worlds.”

“Well, if she thinks that, I guess it would be a tremendous obstacle to overcome.” My face must cloud with confusion because he follows up with, “She said that, right?”

“Not in so many words,” I mumble. She’s given no sign that she cares about my financial status or that I grew up poor in a rich state. But why would that matter for a fling?

“Sounds to me like you’re the obstacle in this equation.” He spews his advice before another customer requires his attention. Knocking the bar with his fist, he points a finger in my direction but adds nothing more.

My mind spins his words, breaking apart the “advice” word by word, letter by letter, until the comment is unrecognizable. Well, except for the two most important words: you and obstacle.