~ Emma
I’m sitting in the bar.
I have no idea what I’m doing here.
Because I’m sitting in a bar where I know the girls no longer are and I know absolutely no one. I knew it before I even walked in the door, it was clear they’d gone, the room is small enough that I could see all the way to the back, where I’m now sitting. It’s almost a relief to know that I don’t have to put on a fake smile and pretend to be happy to be here, but just as soon as I think this, I realise I also can’t go home. If I go home Owen will only find a way to make me go back out, to find out where Sarah is and go meet them.
I’m not sure which option is less appealing right now.
The place is all exposed brick and dark wood. The left side is dominated by a long bar, the wall behind it lined with a waist high bench and the space above filled with glass shelves and bottles. There are glasses hanging from racks and bowls of lime slices, sprigs of herbs and all sorts of other fancy garnishes. There’s no tacky neon signs, no beer advertising and no TV screens showing sports either, just a row of high-backed bar stools, most of which are filled with customers.
The right side of the room has a row of cozy booths and the odd bar table and stool. At the back is a dark corridor, which I’m assuming lead to the bathrooms, next to which sits an old-fashioned jukebox. The music is old school, hip enough to still be trendy but low enough that the customers can still talk. Long bulbs hang from the ceiling, their elements dimmed so the whole place takes on that mysterious darkened room vibe. I can see why Sarah would’ve liked this place.
Tightening my coat, I turn my phone in my hands, trying to work out what the hell I should do now. I can’t go home and I clearly can’t stay here either. But I’m distracted by the call I made before coming in here. The call I couldn’t stop myself from making. The call I make after every shift is over, despite how many times I’m told not to. Or how many times I try and convince myself I don’t need to.
Work.
Of course I’d called back, asking to speak to Jason, to see if the family was okay, that the social worker had taken care of them. What I hadn’t expected was him telling me about the father of the boy we hadn’t been able to save earlier tonight. How he’d had a heart attack and was now in the ICU being monitored. It was lucky he’d been in the hospital when it happened, but I guess you could say it was unlucky he’d been in the hospital in the first place.
Blunt force trauma.
The words ring through my head, even now.
“Emma, you don’t need to worry about this,” Jason had said, even though he knows I will.
“I do,” I’d said, shaking my head. “I should’ve stayed. Will he be alright?”
Jason had let out an exhausted sigh down the line. “Unclear, but he’s stable for now.”
I’d nodded, knowing that the next twenty-four hours would be crucial; that the full extent of the damage to his heart wouldn’t be known right away. Although given everything that had happened to this man’s family tonight, I’m not sure if his heart wasn’t already completely broken anyway.
“Okay, well keep me posted.”
Jason had exhaled again. “Go and have a night off, Emma,” he’d said. You deserve a break.”
“You do too,” I’d said.
Jason had laughed and we both knew what that meant. We did deserve a break, but we were never really going to get one. Our kind of job doesn’t come with an off switch, no matter how many times we walk out the door and try to forget about it.
As clichéd and egotistical as it all sounds, people’s lives were and are, literally in our hands and it’s really hard to just ‘clock off’ and hand that kind of responsibility over to someone else to take care of.
Now though, my phone lights up with a text indicating the missed call and voicemail from Sarah. I’m not sure I have the stomach to listen to it. I know it’s only going to be filled with questions. Questions like ‘where are you?’ and ‘how could you do this to me?’ And they are all questions that I don’t know how to answer.
So instead, I slide my phone back into my bag, wondering what the hell I should do next.
“Drink?” a voice says.
I look up; see the bartender standing in front of me a bottle of beer in one hand and a bottle of scotch in the other. I look at his face, see the questioning look as he stares at me. I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out. Instead, I shake my head, knowing this is a mistake. I can’t sit here alone in some bar drinking. I need to go home. I’ll call Sarah and hope it goes to voicemail, leave her a message that tries to explain I’ve had a shit day at work and celebrating her wedding, which is still eight months away, is not what I feel like doing right now.
“You sure,” he says, setting the bottles on the bar. “You look like you need it?”
I feel a sudden ache of sadness in my chest, my throat tightening as long-forgotten tears threaten to fall. I blink rapidly, trying to make them disappear so I don’t make a complete fool of myself in public. The bartender says nothing, just reaches for a napkin, which he sets wordlessly on the bar in front of me. He then turns and opens the beer, putting it in front of me next to a glass which he fills with a generous pour of the scotch.
“Either or both,” he says, gently pushing them towards me. “On me.”
I say nothing and he walks away. Grateful, I quickly pick up the napkin; blot tears I haven’t shed in as long as I can remember. I don’t even know where they are coming from. I don’t usually cry over things that happen at work.
As cold as it seems, it’s something you quickly learn to block out. Pushing your emotions down until they’re buried somewhere so deep they can’t ever escape. It’s what lets us do our job without falling apart, lets us focus on saving a life when everything appears to be lost.
Sometimes it’s hard not to wonder about the impact it has on our own life though. Sometimes I wonder if I haven’t buried all of these feelings so deep, I’ll never find them again.
I pick up the beer and swallow a long gulp, grateful for the coolness of the liquid as it washes down my throat. I immediately feel better and by the time he wanders back, I’m halfway through the bottle.
“Not a scotch drinker, huh?” he says, gesturing at the glass.
I swallow, glancing up at him. He watches me, a look on his face that I can’t decipher.
He’s good looking in that rugged, manly kind of way. Dark hair, that’s pulled back into one of those fashionable man buns that every guy seems to be sporting these days. It suits him though. His eyes are even darker, but I can’t quite see what colour they are in the low lighting. There’s faintest dusting of stubble on the kind of face that undoubtedly serves him very well in this job. The dark eyes are kind too; eyes that no doubt invite customers to both talk and flirt.
He raises an eyebrow in question and I realise I’ve been staring at him and I have no idea what he just asked me.
“What?” I blurt out.
“Not a scotch drinker?” he asks, gesturing towards my untouched glass.
I shake my head, trying to clear whatever that was just now. “Um…I ah, I like it with ice.”
“Ice, huh?” he says, eyebrows scrunched in question. “Not sure how the Scots would feel about that, but if that’s what you like, what would they know.”
He sets a glass of ice on the bar next to my scotch. I scoop up two cubes and drop them into my drink, hearing them clink against the glass. He watches me the whole time, smiling when I look up at him again.
“Can I get you anything else?” he asks.
My stomach rumbles reminding me that I haven’t eaten for nearly fifteen hours. Between the litres of coffee I’ve had and now the beer and scotch on an empty stomach, I’m going to be on the floor very soon. Given I almost burst into tears when this guy offered me a drink, passing out on the floor of the bar he works in is not something I’m keen on following that up with.
“Do you have any food?” I ask, glancing around the room. There is what looks like a kitchen at the back behind me, but it’s dark, no signs of life.
“We don’t,” he says, apologetically. “But I’m about to order some dinner, want me to get you something too?”
I look up at him; see the concerned look on his face now. I’m about to shake my head no, that I don’t need any special treatment when he pulls a take-away menu from under the bar and slides it in front of me. “They deliver,” he says, as though that solves everything. “We order from them all the time, it’s fine.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, looking down at the options as he stands there watching me. I pick the first thing I see, pointing to it as I slide it over. I reach for my purse, but the guy shakes his head, as if to say it doesn’t matter, before he wanders over to the phone, waving the menu at the other bartender to ask if he wants anything. As I watch him, I can’t help but wonder why he’s being so nice to me. Surely it’s not the standard routine, giving a girl free drinks and a meal just to get them into bed. He’d be out of a job if that were his MO.
No, I’m sure he’s just playing the role, taking pity on someone who’s clearly had a shit day. Maybe he figures if he gives me some free drinks now, I’ll stay and order more.
But as I glance around the room, looking at all of the people in here tonight, the couples, groups of friends, I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m even doing here. I don’t belong in this place because I am nothing like these people. I’m not sure if I ever was or if somehow, I just lost it along the way. The room is full but not so much that it’s packed, it’s just full of life and laughter and happiness. Things that are definitely missing in me these days.
I should leave. I have no place being here and the easiest thing to do would be to go home and try to forget about everything that happened. Wipe the slate clean with sleep so I can get up and do it all again tomorrow.
I stand up, ready to go.
And then for unknown reasons, I slide off my coat and hang it on the back of my chair.
The warmth of the room envelops me, almost like an embrace. As awkward as this all feels, I know the loneliness of anonymity is far better then the loneliness of being at home.
So I sit back down. But when I glance up, I catch the bartender staring at me and I wonder if this was such a good idea after all.