When The Rain Falls

2. Fuck this Bar

2 FUCK THIS BAR

FINN

There's nothing more obnoxious than a bar full of chipper, half-drunk assholes trying to have a good time.

Fuck this bar.

Fuck that disco ball shooting perky, refracted light around the room. How is a guy supposed to brood in a place with a disco ball?

And fuck the woman across the room. The one wearing a low-cut, black tank top. She dances like one of those inflatable tube men you see at car sale lots. It doesn’t help she keeps yelling shots every time some pathetic moron buys her a drink. Pretty sure she’s up to three now. Not that I’m counting.

Also. Fuck September 1st while we're at it. It used to be my favorite day of the year. Now it’s my least.

I glance at my watch. I hope there's a special place in hell for people who force you to socialize and then show up late. Actually, I hope there isn’t because then I’d be stuck in hell for eternity with my goddamn brother.

I should charge him my hourly rate. I could have billed enough hours to buy Vivian that pair of soccer cleats she's been asking for.

This bar scene isn’t for me. I much prefer to brood alone.

A hand slaps my shoulder. When I turn my head, my vision is assaulted by a tacky, bright red Hawaiian shirt. I have to squint to keep the goddamn offense out of my eyes.

Tyler’s eyes crinkle in amusement. They’re a hazy blue. Hazy, just like his commitment to women. The goddamn bastard. How does he look good even in that fucking shirt?

“You’re late, asshole.”

“Aww, how precious. You missed me.” I roll my eyes at him.

"Hideous shirt,” I grumble as he takes a seat next to me.

“It’s Hawaiian shirt night.”

“That explains why this place looks like Jimmy Buffet’s wardrobe exploded in here.”

“Glad you’re a fan, ‘cause I have one for you." Tyler pulls an exact replica of his shirt from what appears to be thin air. He tosses it against my chest. I feel a little bit of brotherly aggression behind the playful gesture. He leans back in his barstool and rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I had to guess on your size now that you're a walking slab of human muscle,” he says. “You look good, by the way.” He gestures to my frame.

Muscles. Apparently, that’s what happens when you put down the bottle and pick up the barbell. Which is what I did several years ago.

"Not wearing it," I say, dropping the shirt unceremoniously onto the counter between us.

"Alright then.” Tyler snorts. “Still size extra grump-ass." His bright blue eyes are brimming with cocky mischief and it kind of makes me want to punch something. Something like his face.

Tyler waves down the bartender and slings an arm casually across the bar top as he faces me. "You holding up alright?" he asks.

"Yep," I answer quickly, not bothering to look in his direction.

"You sure?" he prods, uncertain.

"Yep," I say again.

“Good talk."

We’re both ignoring the elephant in the room. That today is my late wife, Laurel’s, birthday. Tyler coaxed me out tonight because he’s worried about me. I’m worried about me, too, to be honest. Because it doesn’t seem right to still be pining for someone who’s been gone for so long. I thought time would heal the pain. But it’s been nine fucking years.

I grip the glass in front of me. Lemonade and iced-tea. I don’t drink anymore. After Laurel died, I did far too much drinking. I drank to go numb. Honestly, I drank for the fucking hangovers. It was a small comfort. To have pain in my body instead of just my heart. But that’s all in the past.

In fact, this bar is where I had my last real drink. The bartender, our mutual friend, Dan, called Tyler to come pick me up when I somehow managed to become too drunk to stand, but sober enough to throw a punch. That was the last straw. For me, anyway.

“I’m surprised you actually came out. Jenna bet me a week of coffee that you’d bail. I’m about to be the most caffeinated man on the planet.” I roll my eyes. Great. My antisocial tendencies are now the subject of wagers between my siblings.

“You unleashed Ma on me. She showed up on my doorstep with dinner for the girls and practically ran me out of the fucking house. I’m lucky she gave me five minutes to change.”

“Yeah, well, you need to blow off some steam. And get laid.”

“Ma said the exact same thing.” I eye him suspiciously. My lack of a love life has, apparently, become a family affair.

“Shots!” A grating voice cuts across the room. The girl in the black tank top is at it again. She’s throwing her head back and laughing like a goddamn hyena. That would be four. Not that I’m counting.

“Come on, old man. For once, don’t act your age.” At forty-two, I’m considerably older than Tyler. A fact he likes to bring up as frequently as possible. “You can forget about your responsibilities for one night.”

“Those responsibilities are called children ,” I grumble. “Vivian has a soccer game early in the morning. And I have to figure out how to get Ruby a homecoming dress. And the mall makes me twitchy.” Tyler’s been trying to coax me out of the house for months. I keep using my two daughters as an excuse to turn him down. Tonight he refused my no and deployed his most powerful weapon—Ma.

Tyler ignores me and slaps me on the back again. “Sounds like a tomorrow problem. Tonight’s about poor decisions.” I swear his eyes are twinkling. Tyler’s attention is drawn to a commotion at the front of the bar. I follow his gaze to see a group of women in jeans and skimpy tank tops enter. They’re laughing loudly, flipping their hair in that obnoxious way women do, and calling out to someone outside.

"And those poor decisions just walked in." Tyler winks at me. He stands and tries to catch their attention with a wave. Ice immediately floods my veins.

"Tyler, what is this ?" I ask threateningly.

"Relax," he says. "I just invited some friends."

The women catch Tyler waving and meander in our direction. My stomach clenches.

"I want you to meet Brook. You'll like her.”

"You swore no more ambushes," I growl at my brother as I run an anxious palm down my face.

He just laughs. "I'd hardly call Brook an ambush . She's a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet.” He laughs. "Plus, if she jumped you, which is kind of the goal here, I think you could take her." There’s that mischievous smile again. Something hot is beginning to rise in my chest. I feel betrayed. My fists clench tightly around my glass.

A tall woman with blonde hair and blue eyes approaches us. "Brook. This is my brother, Finn.” He clamps my shoulder as if warning me to play nice.

Brook smiles shyly at me. She’s beautiful. All of Tyler’s women are beautiful. But she’s probably too young. And I have no desire to make tiring small talk with a woman who’s waiting for an advance that will never materialize. I’m not wasting this woman’s time. I’m certainly not wasting mine.

"Hi, Finn." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ears. Eyes fluttering. Cheeks flushing. Lips pouting. All the usual trappings. It’s enough to remind me that it’s been a long time. A really fucking long time.

But not enough to forget the real problem. Ever since Laurel died, I’ve struggled with performance anxiety. I can get hard easy enough. Probably too easy, considering how sex-deprived I am. But I can’t stay hard. And that, turns out, makes sex difficult.

I stand from my barstool, still clutching my glass. I can't even force a smile. I nod as politely as possible, then walk away.

"Uh, hang on," I hear Tyler say behind me. Suddenly, he's at my back, matching me step for step. I feel his hand on my shoulder. "Wait," he says. I stop and face him. I notice Brook over his shoulder, looking at me expectantly. I wonder what exactly Tyler told her. About coming here tonight. Come meet my pathetic brother? He could use pity sex on the anniversary of his late wife’s birthday. The burning in my chest flares.

"You asshole." I glare at Tyler.

"Just say hi. It won't kill you. I think you two have a lot in common."

"Like what?" I challenge him.

"Well, uh," he starts. "You both have jobs, and,” Tyler gives me a wise-guy smile, "you’re a lawyer and she, uh, I’m pretty sure she knows what a lawyer is. There’s also this thing called sex. You don't even have to talk. You just put your parts together like a jigsaw puzzle and?—”

"Fuck off," I mutter.

"I promise you'll have fun. Brook's cool." Tyler gives me a casual shrug.

"I'll be at the bar," I say through gritted teeth. I shrug his arm off my shoulder.

"Not again,” I hear him mutter quietly behind me as I walk away. "Every fucking time. Come on, it’ll be good for you!”

As I find a seat alone at the bar, I think about what I'd give for Laurel to be here. Even for one night. Fuck, one minute. What I'd give to see her face one more time. To hold her one more time. To hear her say, "I love you." Just one more time. But that will never happen.

"Happy birthday, babe.” I lift my drink in an imaginary toast.