When The Rain Falls

43. I Still Hate Lemonade

43 I STILL HATE LEMONADE

AIMEE

"Racing tomorrow?" a friendly voice asks.

I look to my left and see a tall, thin man with a trim beard and cute face sitting down the bar from me. A mounted cougar head looms eerily on the wooden planked walls above him. The cougar head is surrounded by framed newspaper clippings about the 1980 Mt. St. Helens eruption. There are also several photos showing what the volcano looked like before, during, and after the moment it blew its top. There's a plaque above the bar that says, Mt. St. Helens, Washington’s largest ash hole .

Well, this place definitely has a theme.

"How’d you know?" I ask. I'm sipping water at the bar and working my way through nacho fries. It’s an easy guess. We're in Cougar, the nearest lodging near the mountain where the race will be tomorrow. And right now, the tiny town is overrun with racers. Town is a strong word for Cougar, Washington. If you glance down at your phone while driving through, you’d miss it entirely.

“The shoes." He chuckles. "I recognize Saucony's best trail running shoes when I see them."

"Oh, right." I give him a smile. "You, too?"

He nods. He opens his mouth to say something else, but he's interrupted by a server setting a drink down in front of me.

"Here you go,” the server says. “Double shot of tequila.” She nods at me before walking away.

The man’s eyes widen and his mouth drops. "You're having shots before a race?"

I raise the glass, air toast in his direction, and throw it back. I grin at him. But I don’t really feel the grin. I’m crushed inside.

Squeeze the lemon. Add sugar. Make lemonade.

I still hate lemonade.

"Is that your good luck charm? Tequila? Because I usually just wear my lucky socks." He lifts a pant leg to show me his socks. They’re plain, white, ankle socks. Who picks plain white ankle socks to be their lucky socks?

"I don't believe in luck," I tell him. The only thing I believe is that my life is empty and I’m alone again. Little by little, Finn was becoming my foundation. But that’s just me, isn’t it? I finally find place where I might belong and the dirt beneath me turns into a sink hole.

I set the glass down on the counter. "I just like shots,” I explain. The man laughs. "Also,” I continue, “I never sleep well before a race. Sometimes shots help.” I tent my fingers over the rim of the empty glass and stare at my plate of nacho fries. I have no appetite, but I know I have to eat something.

My companion leans over and extends his hand to me. "I'm Zach, by the way."

"Aimee," I say, taking his hand and giving it a firm shake. I can’t help but notice that he doesn’t have Finn’s muscular frame. And his eyes are just boring blue. Not stormy grey. And his face is too friendly. He smiles too easily. Smiles are better when you have to earn them.

"So what's after this?” he asks.

I shrug and give him a polite smile. I’m waiting for the liquid that warmed my throat to warm my insides, too. But I just feel cold. Everywhere.

"You know, there's this viewpoint nearby. I hear it's great to watch the sunset. I’m a landscape photographer on the side and I was gonna see if I can get any good shots. Wanna come?”

I feel transported back three weeks ago. To the night I met Finn at the bar. When I was lonely and sad and wishing for something more than one night. It’s like time moved forward. But I didn’t go anywhere. Because here I am again. In the exact same place. Sad. Alone. In a bar.

As I nurse my internal wounds, I wonder if he’s ok. I wonder if he needs a hug. I wonder if he’s still drinking. And then I think I’m stupid. For feeling lovesick, and gutted, and still filled with concern for the person who made me feel this way.

I consider Zach’s offer. I consider how maybe I’m just a hopeless cause. Why try to change? What’s the point? I can’t break the cycle. The cycle of giving away too much of myself for nothing in return. Why not accept this invitation. Why not enjoy the thrills that come with one night. Even if it means waking up in yet another stranger’s bed only to be ushered out the door in the morning like recycled glass. Empty. Used. And possibly broken.

Except, something inside me won’t let me. Not this time.

"Thanks for the invite," I finally say. "But, I’m just going to chill here and then go to my room.”

"If you change your mind, I'm not leaving for another hour. I'm across the street in room 104. Just knock."

"Yeah, thanks.” I give him the last polite smile I can muster as he gathers his things and slips away from the bar.

Later that evening, when I cross the street to the motel, I don’t knock on Zach’s door.

I go to my room, lay on the bed, and stare dumbly at the empty bars across the top of my phone. Maybe it’s a small piece of comfort. To blame the fact I have no one to talk to on the lack of cell service in Cougar, Washington. And not on the fact that I have no one to call.

Another consolation rises to the surface of my mind. But it’s even bleaker than the first. To know that I finally had it. For once, I finally had something meaningful to lose.

I think about Finn’s words. You think my wife is the other woman here? Of course, I’m the other woman. Of course I am. I was so stupid to think anything else.

That night, I fall asleep clutching my phone to my chest. My head on a lumpy motel pillow. My face wet with tears.