But that night, I was good on the house parties and wanted a quieter scene. I sat at the bar and took in the bass of the music. The sound of the lyrics of T-Pain’s song about buying a drink soothed the never-ending ache in my chest that happened on the anniversary of Xander’s passing. The bass did most of the work. It was heavy enough to shake through your chest and loud enough to drown out anything trying to rise to the surface.
Xander’s birthday caused something stronger. My normal vice was vodka, but tonight I switched to whisky. I needed to be drunk enough to forget and buzzed but sober enough to get myself home. That was the sweet spot. Whenever I felt any emotion other than apathy, I handled it the only way I knew how. I drank it down and swallowed it whole.
I leaned against the bar, signaling for another.
I didn’t even look up when the bartender nodded. I didn't look at the people around me. I just wiped the tear that was leaking from my right eyelid and twirled my ring finger in a circle motion towards the bartender to signal another round.
“Are you sure you need another one?”
A husky and deep voice came from behind me. His voice was calm when he barged in on my conversation with the bartender.
It wasn’t judgmental or loud, but it did cause something in me to listen.
I glanced behind me, and that’s when I saw the second most handsome man I had ever seen. I hated that I compared everyone to X. He didn’t look like the guys I was used to seeing in places like this. He wasn’t trying to fit in. Hell, he knew he didn’t with his quarter zip and khaki pants. But even though he didn't belong in this dive bar, he had a smile on his face, as if he was just grateful to be anywhere a good vibe was. He wasn’t trying too hard. He wasn’t trying to flirt or stare at me as if I were something to conquer.
He just looked at me like he was actually seeing me.
He cleared his throat to garner my attention. I looked back at the bartender.
“He doesn’t speak for me,” I said, turning slightly toward him.“I want another drink.”
He nodded once, like he believed me.
“That’s usually the answer people give when they don’t want to think about hard shit, they just want to drown it out,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow.
“And what do you think I’m trying hard not to think about?”
He shrugged slightly, taking a sip of his drink.“Why should I shut the hell up so you can have another one?”
I let out a short laugh because of the nerve of this man.
“Or,” I said, grabbing my glass from the bar, “maybe I just like to drink.”
“Maybe,” he said easily.
No pushback.
No challenge.
He just accepted that I may not be perfect, and there was something comforting about that. I looked him up and down. His clothes looked pressed, and his shorts were tucked in. He had loafers on in a fucking bar, and he was talking to me as if he knew struggle, as if he could relate to pain. Something on my face must have given way to my thoughts because he shook his head.
“Don’t do that. Don’t go assuming that your struggles are worse than everyone else’s. Some of us who dress up struggle real fuckin’ well.”
“I’m sorry,” I muttered. “Let’s start over. My name is Chanel.”
I studied him for a second. His chocolate skin was smooth, and he had a full, beautiful beard that I wanted to rub. I chuckled at myself, realizing this was the first time since 2006 that I had noticed how dewy a man’s skin could be. I realized I missed the little things. Being held, laughing at a Nigga’s jokes, and feeling a softness that comes from being chosen.
“Nice to meet you, Chanel. My name is Charles, and I know it sounds corny, but I think we were supposed to meet tonight.”
I giggled. “Is that right? Do you always analyze strangers at bars?” I asked.
“Only the ones who look like they’re trying not to be noticed,” he said.
That made me pause. Because he was right. I wasn’t here to be seen. I was here to disappear.
I took a slow sip, watching him over the rim of my glass.