Chapter 29
Daniel
I hear people snickering and I feel their eyes on me as I shove my way through Flynn & Murray's Irish Pub.
I don't give a fuck about anybody's opinion right now. I'm just so fucking frustrated.
It’s starting to feel like Grace isn't even trying to make this work. Or like she's hiding something. It makes me uncomfortable to my stomach. I’m ready to put this phase behind me. I just want to solve this shit so that I can get back to my family.
Dropping onto an empty stool at the bar, I shove my fingers through my hair. Storming out in the middle of your therapy session won’t get you any closer to that goal, idiot.
Fuck!
I glance behind the bar and neither Flynn nor Murray is there. It looks like the Friday night bartender is working a Saturday evening shift. Just my luck. When he sees me, he gives me a look that says, Great! It's you again!, and guess who's getting a shitty tip tonight.
I call out to him. "Hey man, can I have a pint of..." I wave my hand indifferently in the direction of the old-fashioned beer dispensers lining the counter. "...of whatever." He grunts under his breath and walks off to grab my drink.
I feel two big, burly bodies closing in on me. I look up to find Keeland approaching with his brother, Maxwell, right behind him.
"Hey man," Keeland greets me cautiously, like I'm some wild animal that just might bite. “We were sitting at a table at the back. Just noticed you walk in.”
The brothers both eye me from head to toe, wearing question marks in their identical silver-blue irises. After a beat, Maxwell leans over to Keeland. The concern on his face is genuine when he whispers a little too loudly. "Why is he wearing that? Is he having a breakdown?"
I growl. "Dude – I'm not deaf!"
“Sorry,” Maxwell says, still looking confused. He’s silent for an instant but I can tell that he just can’t hold his tongue. “No offence but you look a cross between a snake charmer, a belly dancer and Elton John circa 1973. So again, man – are you okay?”
Keeland gives his brother a hard push on the shoulder but he’s clearly struggling to keep from bursting into laughter. “Maxwell is a dick but he does have a point. You’re a white guy wearing a dhoti and a yo-bro tank top in a middle-of-nowhere Illinois suburbs on a cold-ass Saturday afternoon in fall. You look like you escaped from a Halloween party at an insane asylum…” I glare at him and he shrugs before sipping his drink. “Just sayin’.”
“Thanks, jerk-off,” I mutter under my breath.
He hitches a brow. “I’m assuming that the yoga retreat isn’t going as planned?”
Just then the bartender sets down my beer on the counter beside me. I grab it and swallow down a frigid gulp. “The yoga retreat is bullshit,” I grumble.
“Wanna talk about it?” Keeland offers. I turn to him with fire in my glare.
Gotta be careful though, because he’s using copious amounts of hair product and my sister would never forgive me if I set her husband ablaze with my death glare.
“No, I don’t want to talk about it. I want to pretend that this yoga retreat never happened.”
“Then, let’s change the subject,” Maxwell says in the placating tone of a pre-school teacher as he glances at his brother. He’s obviously trying to be helpful but it’s annoying as hell.
Keeland nods in agreement. He raps his knuckles on the counter for a beat. “You’d never guess who was just in here asking questions about you…”
Do I even want to know the answer to that question? With the way my life’s been going, I’m sure the answer is ‘no’.
“Brittany Delaney,” Maxwell supplies. “She was trying to get the goods on you, asking all kinds of personal shit.”
I blow out a frustrated breath. Would that girl just go away?! “I hope you assholes didn’t tell her anything, give her any ideas.”
They both tsk. “Of course not, man. The girl has stage five clinger written all over her,” Maxwell groans.
“Tell me about it,” I say as I spin my empty glass on the bartop. “I might have hooked up with the girl once, maybe twice. Eight years ago? Nine, maybe? And now, she’s back in town acting all stalkerific.” I shake my head.
Keeland nudges me in the shoulder. “Look at you, Mr. Humble-Brag! She can’t forget the Big D. Admit it!” He and Maxwell roar with laughter. This is all pretty entertaining to them.
“Glad you two are amused by this. The last thing I need at this point in my life is some shady stalker.”
Maxwell looks away and mutters into his beer. “Well, maybe if she saw you in this outfit you’re wearing, she might reconsider.” Keeland titters.
“You two are just comedians, aren’t you?!” I call out to the barman for another beer. I glance out the window. It’s already getting dark.
Just then, some guys recognize Maxwell as the star quarterback of the Iowa Paragons and they drag him to the other end of the bar to lavish him with booze and worship for his stellar performance in the last game.
With his brother gone, my best friend regains a tone of serious as he perches on a stool. “So, you’re sure nothing happened with Brittany when she cornered you at the bar last week?”
“Nothing happened. I love Grace and there isn’t enough alcohol in the world to get me into another woman’s bed. Especially a woman like Brittany. I wouldn’t touch that woman with a ten-foot pole.”
Keeland scoffs. “Good to know but would you stop trying to make me feel inadequate? My pole is only nine and a half feet.”
I chuckle under my breath.
He leans his elbows on the counter and looks at me. "So, when are you gonna tell me what's really going on with you and Grace?"
Pushing my fingers through my hair, I grunt. "There's nothing to tell. We just don't see eye-to-eye on anything anymore."
"Well that's a bullshit answer. Be real, man."
My eyes flit over his face. He seems genuinely concerned about my marriage. There's so much that Grace and I have kept private about our relationship. Maybe getting some of those secrets out in the open would help. And not only is this guy my best friend but he's also the alchemist who put a lovespell on my stubborn, headstrong sister when she was determined to fight him off.
Maybe Keeland Masters actually – wait for it, wait for it... – understands women.
Pulling in a breath, I run down all the things that were said at our counseling session this afternoon. Keeland listens intently, only offering a nod and a thoughtful hmm here and there. By the time I'm done baring my soul, I'm three beers deep and up to my eyeballs in agony.
Frustrated, I slam a fist into the bar. "What the hell do I have to do to win this chick back?! I'm getting desperate. I'm about to choreograph a dance and belt out a freakin' Justin Bieber song to her! Help me out, man!”
Keeland laughs but I’m more serious than I’ve ever been. I just want to make my wife remember what it was like when she was in love with me and I was in love with her. Is that too much to ask?
"Have you tried listening to her? Being her friend? ‘Cause it seems to me that you two might have a communication issue." Keeland wears a sage look on his face.
"Thanks, Oprah. But it really can't be that simple."
"Sounds like you've been suffocating her with your expectations. You expect her to feel a certain way instead of just letting her feel the way she does and supporting her. So naturally, she lashes out against you, arguing with you all the time. And what do you do in response? You turn to your work, stop spending time with her. You can’t expect her to react well to that.”
The rightness of Keeland's word penetrates my thick skull. I've got to talk to my wife and I've got to listen to her. Maybe it is that simple. How did I not realize that? How could I be so dense?
"Jeez, Master Kee. When did you turn into such a sappy guy?" I tease.
He teases right back, hitting a known soft spot. "When I started banging your sister."
I growl, punching him in the shoulder. "Watch it, man!"
He laughs as I slide off my stool. "Stop minding my business and go get your wife back."
He doesn't have to tell me twice. I'm already halfway out the door.