7 Months Later

A breeze shoots through Louie’s as some new patrons enter. They’re a yuppie looking couple— she’s got a dress and heels on and he’s wearing a business suit.

“These two look a little out of place in this dive bar,” I whisper to Larson.

He and I have been friends since we were SEALs together. Now we’re both in the Desert Dogs motorcycle club.

“I don’t know,” he says, not bothering to whisper back. Whispering isn’t Larson’s style. “Albuquerque has gone a bit too uphill for my tastes.”

I can’t resist laughing.

“What’s on special for happy hour?” the female asks.

Jeff, the bartender, looks both of them up and down before answering, “Same as always,” with a shrug.

“Do you have any martini specials?” she asks.

Now Larson and I both laugh, and Jeff glares at her like she has three heads.

“We got well whiskey with a coke back for three bucks, or Bud Light for two bucks.”

The woman suddenly looks around as if realizing this bar isn’t the kind of place she thought it was. Her eyes take in the many current and former service members stationed at Kirtland Air Force Base who like to come here to unwind after a day of training, and of course, all the MC members who ride our bikes here.

“Should we go somewhere else?” she asks her husband, with uncertainty and a hint of fear plastered all over her face.

“Might as well have a beer,” he says, nodding at Larson and me and then sitting down at the bar.

“Great,” Larson mumbles. “I sure hope this fucking place doesn’t change too much.”

He wants Louie’s to remain exclusively a biker’s dive bar. But much to his dismay, ever since the city has decided to “gentrify” the area, more and more newcomers pop in, oblivious to the fact that this has been our turf for a long time.

“Don’t worry, it’ll always be our Louie’s,” I tell Larson, and Jeff gives me a thumbs up from behind the bar, as if he’s agreeing with me without being allowed to say so.

They probably gave Jeff some kind of talking to about being more welcome to newcomers. Last week he threw one of them out for asking where the bloody mary bar is. That was after he answered, “Down the street and two blocks to the left, at the Brunch Bar where all the Mommies are dining with their kids in toe. Isn’t that the hipster way?”

“Some bars will always be like a second home,” I tell Larson. “Especially when what’s going on at your own isn’t great.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Larson asks, lifting an eyebrow at me.

I shake my head.

“That sounded worse than it is,” I tell him, hurrying to clear things up. “It’s just that Riley is super pregnant and…”

“Has constantly raging hormones?” Larson guesses.

“Hey,” I tell him, upset that he’s disparaging my wife. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

“Sorry,” he says, shirking back onto the bar stool. “I was just trying to be helpful.”

“I know,” I tell him, instantly softening.

I should have realized he didn’t mean anything bad by his comment. Larson has had plenty of experience with a pregnant wife and was probably trying to offer his help in that department. Which is kind of him to do, since after everything that happened with Larson’s family, I know he rarely likes to even think about that period of time in his life.

I sigh.

“I appreciate the help.”

Larson shrugs. Knowing him, he’ll brood for a while and then get over it. He has a dark past and some skeletons in his closet but he’s a good guy at heart, especially considering the hand life has dealt him. He’s also a loyal fellow SEAL for life, and a good friend.

I think about elaborating on what I mean about problems at home but I’m regretting ever bringing it up to Larson. There’s nothing I could say that wouldn’t remind him of his own troubled past. Plus, I don’t think it’s really fair if I tell Larson what’s been up before I tell my own wife.

“Come on,” he says, as if reading my mind. “Spit it out. What’s the problem.”

I guess there’s no getting out of spilling my guts to at least some extent. That’s what’s so great about Larson. He’s always so fucking understanding and helpful, even though his own life is so shitty.

“Oh, it’s just… you know. Riley is nine months pregnant and about to have our first child. I’m so nervous of something happening, or of anything stressing her out, that I find it hard to…”

“Communicate?” Larson guesses.

“I guess so,” I admit.

It sounds silly when I put it that way. I know my wife isn’t some dainty flower just because she’s pregnant. She’s a strong, heroic woman— with gorgeous curves that have only gotten more beautiful throughout her pregnancy. Her body is capable of carrying and delivering a human being. Yet, I turn into a wimp about anything that could possibly upset her.

“Look,” Larson says. “Whatever’s going on, just talk to her about it. Sometimes people get anxious about stuff, I get that, but it doesn’t do any good. It won’t change the outcome except maybe to make it worse. Believe me. I know.”

“Thanks, Larson,” I tell him, seriously grateful.

Tragedy has made Larson wise beyond his years. I appreciate him sharing life’s hard lessons with me.

The woman beside us puts a hand on her husband’s arm and says in a high pitched, whiny voice, “Can we leave yet? Happy hour’s almost over and I want to grab a cosmo at Fig Bar before it ends.”

Larson rolls his eyes, as does Jeff, but her comment prompts me to look at my phone. It’s after five o’clock.

“I’m gonna head home,” I tell him. “You coming?”

Larson looks down at his half empty beer and shakes his head.

“Nah, I’ll hang out here for a while before hitting the road.”

Larson doesn’t really have a home, but I do, and I’d best be getting there. I’ll already be on my bike in rush hour traffic. One of the great things about teaching pararescue courses on the Base is that I start early and finish early, usually beating the bottleneck traffic if I want to go grab a drink after work. But today I’d been hesitating to leave, putting off heading home.

That’s really not fair to Riley. Larson’s right: I have to communicate with her so we can fight problems together head on. Plus, I miss her sexy ass and gorgeous face.