Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82893 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
“Of course,” he says, dipping his chin, and then I hear him quietly talking as I walk across the room to my closet.
Having no idea that two hours later, my life is going to be irrevocably changed forever.
1
ELORA
45.8918° N, 123.9615° W
Working at a bar, a place where people come to have a good time is the last place I would’ve thought I’d find some semblance of solace after my mom’s passing. But over the past five months, I’ve discovered that other people’s problems are a great distraction when your own life is in shambles.
It’s a morbid way to look at things, but my mom always did say “No matter how big your problems are, Elora, there is always someone, somewhere, dealing with a situation worse than yours.”
She was right. If you pull back the curtains and look through the front that most people have up, you’ll find everyone is just trying to survive some kind of tragedy.
Like Jenny, sitting at the end of the bar, sipping a martini with a smile on her face. She lost her house and her cat two weeks ago in a fire and is now homeless until her insurance can investigate and help her rebuild.
Pat, sitting next to her in his fancy suit with a whiskey neat, is an attorney in town who comes in nightly to get wasted as a way to avoid dealing with the loss of his wife, who died in a car accident years ago.
Samsun, across the room at the pool tables, is recently divorced, and his teenage kids now live in California with their mom. He hasn’t seen or heard from them in months. And Polly, who is playing pool with him, is a woman searching for companionship or love in all the wrong places, coming back each night to try again.
Scanning the room, going from face-to-face, story to story, I feel a little less alone in the bleakness that has consumed my life.
“Elora.” I come out of my thoughts and look over at Colleen, the manager of The View, the small hotel and bar I work at overlooking Cannon Beach. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I force a smile.
“Then get it together, girl. You’ve got drinks piling up, tables to bus, and customers to check on.”
“Sorry.” I cringe. I might have gotten better at being a server these past few months, but I’m far from good at it. Scooting out from behind the bar, I grab the tray of drinks, drop them off, pick up empties, and wipe down tables.
As I’m making my way through the bar and taking new orders, I notice a man sitting alone in the dark corner. I’m not sure when he got here, but there are two empty glasses on the table in front of him, so he’s been here a while. I just didn’t notice him before now, which is hard to believe because even sitting in the dimmest part of the bar, his thick dark hair, full beard, and masculine features are difficult to miss.
On my approach, my fingers tap together at my sides, a tic I picked up when I was little. A tell that always used to let my mom know when I was nervous or had done something wrong.
“Hey, are you ready for another one?” I ask quietly, and his head turns my way. Eyes so clear, so bright, they stand out even in the dim light as they meet mine. I’m not sure what color they are, but paired with his aristocratic features and the air of ‘do not fuck with me’ surrounding him, I almost step back.
He might blend in with the rest of the men in the room in his plaid flannel shirt and jeans, but the tattoos I can see on his hands and the silver rings on his fingers make him stick out like an odd puzzle piece that got mixed up in the wrong box.
“What?” Even with him sitting, I get the impression he’s looking down his nose at me.
“Do you want another drink?” I lift my chin at the empty glasses on the table in front of him.
Dropping his eyes, he looks at them for a long moment, then tips his head back to meet my gaze once more. It’s then I notice a glassy look in his eyes I missed before. Not like he’s been crying, but like he’s drunk way too much already. That, or he’s high.
He doesn’t respond; he just stares at me, unblinking.
“Water it is,” I mutter under my breath, scooping up the glasses, ready to get away from him.
“I don’t want water. I want another bourbon.” His deep voice lashes out at me from behind as I turn for the bar.
“You got it,” I toss over my shoulder and let out a breath.
While Colleen pours him another drink from one of the top-shelf bottles of bourbon, I grab a glass and fill it with water and ice.