The bar was mostly empty, just the way I needed it.

I settled up on a barstool and waved two fingers at the woman behind the bar. She had white blonde hair, pulled back, with a pretty face, blue eyes, and the kind of clothes that were nothing but trouble for what was going through my head as I ordered a drink.

Three fingers of cheap whiskey, no ice.

I stared at the bar as I rubbed my thumb across my upper lip. My eyes were dazed and weary. I made it an hour away before finally pulling over and stopping.

Everything I was doing was wrong.

There was no talking my way out of this mess. There was no good excuse either. Just a reason. And the problem with that was that excuses and reasons were too close, hand in hand together. One was an easy grab, to walk away. The other had purpose… even if you still walked away.

Guess what?

I walked away.

“Well, shit, aren’t you dressed up?” a gravelly voice asked me.

I turned my head and watched as some rough-looking guy in jeans, a matching jacket, black trucker hat and a wild beard climbed up on the barstool two seats away from me.

I gave a quick nod to acknowledge him and turned back again, making it clear I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. It was fucking just after noon and I was sitting alone in a bar, sipping whiskey, dressed up in a rented tux. Why the fuck would I want to talk to anyone?

“You look ready for a wedding, my friend,” the old man said to me.

“Yeah,” I said. I lifted my glass. “Just having a drink.”

“Ah, so that’s it. You’re the groom.”

I gritted my teeth.

The bartender looked at me. She raised an eyebrow.

Judging me. Rightfully so.

Wondering what kind of a man I was that on my wedding day, I was in a bar, drinking whiskey, all dressed up. Wondering if my soon-to-be wife was sitting with her mother and bridesmaids, talking, crying and laughing because they kept telling her not to cry because she was going to mess up her makeup.

Oh, if you only knew the truth…

I rubbed my jaw and sipped more of the whiskey.

“It’s okay to get worried about it,” the old man said.

Now he moved closer to me.

“Name’s Pete,” he said. “Married twice. Divorced once. Looking for number three, but Layla here won’t accept my proposal.”

He nodded to the bartender.

“Ah, Pete, you and I would never work,” she said. “You spend too much time here. We’d get sick of each other.”

Pete laughed. “See the way she talks to me?”

“Look, I’m just trying to have a drink before I get going,” I said. “No offense.”

“None taken,” he said. “The wedding morning is always hectic. She’s getting all dolled up and you get to sit and think.” He tapped the side of his head. “That’s a tough gig for us guys. But remember why you asked her in the first place. This is all for show right now. A big act. What happens before and after is what matters.”

I quickly stood up. I had the urge to punch Pete in the mouth.

But he was a stranger.

I grabbed the whiskey glass and killed off the drink. I dug out a ten from my pocket and threw it to the bar.

“You look good,” Pete said.

He didn’t even know my fucking name and here he was smiling at me, complimenting me.

“He’s right,” Layla said from behind the bar. “You look good.”

I looked at her and curled my lip.

They thought I was just some jittery groom on the day of his wedding.

Wishing me luck. Smiling at the sight of my nerves. All that cliché bullshit that happens on someone’s wedding day.

I looked down at myself.

The black shoes. The black pants. The white shirt with ruffles. All that fancy crap that I would never ever wear in my life. But I was wearing it. And I had all the plans together. And it went all the way back to offering a ring to someone.

I didn’t bother saying goodbye because they were just strangers.

I wanted to sit there for longer than just one drink.

But I could go and find another bar to do that.

They thought I was nervous about getting married.

The truth was that I had no intention of showing up to the wedding at all.