Davis

Five A.M. comes early.

I leap out of bed, clap my hands together, and decide it’s going to be a banner fucking day.

I’m going to make my clients a shit-ton of money. I decree it.

I realize as I shave, dress, and tie my shoes that this is a coping mechanism. But it works—which is why coping mechanisms were invented, so here we are.

An hour into my workday, one of the guys from work calls to ask for advice on an account. I take the call. Simps (short for his last name, Simpson) is younger than me both in this business and in birthdays. I first met him at a work retreat a year or so ago, and then he came to the poker night I hosted over the summer. I work with—well, not with, more like alongside—some incredibly driven men and women, but Simps manages to run circles around the competition without being a flaming dick weed, so points to him.

I’m hungry for lunch by eleven thanks to my early hours and the amount of pacing I’ve done while talking on the phone. I rinse my coffee mug and reheat a hearty bowl of chili. I pair it with a grilled cheese, and because I’m eating my feelings today, I make one layer of cheese Gruyère and the other layer Brie. I top the cheese with thin slices of Bartlett pear and the pièce de résistance: raspberry jam. I grill it to a buttery golden brown that would make any chef weep.

I bite into my masterpiece, expecting to be so turned on by my sandwich that we might need a moment together. Instead I’m hammered with a memory. One I didn’t see coming.

One I should have seen coming.

It involves my ex-fiancée, Hanna, and her affinity for Brie on melba toast with a dab of raspberry jam.

The bite goes rancid in my mouth, and it was a big one. I block my throat and chew, but for all my efforts, I may as well be navigating a mouthful of setting cement.

That memory leads to another—the way Hanna used to leave her shoes scattered around the house.

And another—her voice echoing through the foyer as she spoke to her mother for an hour each Saturday morning.

I finally get the bite down, deeply in need of a wet drink to coax it to my stomach. At the fridge I overlook the pitcher of water and a container of orange juice and focus on the line of Sam Adams bottles staring back at me.

Every year I get through this day with relatively few flashbacks. On rare occasions, thoughts of Hanna and our life together assault me. The last time it happened was four years ago—I thought I was over it. Guess not.

This is going to suck.

I swipe a bottle from the shelf and decide to start drinking sooner than I originally planned…like now.

Now seems good.

Grace

Margo comes in at five o’clock. She’s my bartending and managerial relief. I’m so glad she’s back, I could kiss her. I refrain, but I do thank her for not leaving me forever.

“How were tango lessons?” I ask.

“Good.” Her eyes brighten. “My husband and I try and do things together to keep the love alive.” She’s never shared anything personal with me since I met her, but I try not to overreact. “He can’t dance a single step, but he tries, and that means something.”

I chime in with my agreement, though I can’t think of a time when a boyfriend has gone out of his way to do something nice for me that didn’t also benefit him. Then I think of the champagne tasting, and the way Davis was going to leave my house without sex, and wonder if that counts.

It does and I know it.

I pocket my tips and do some light cleaning. I’m about to leave when—no kidding—a gaggle of skirts and suits pour in through the doors. They’re all carrying briefcases or large handbags and using very office-y words. It’s rare on a Thursday to see this sort of rush early, so I offer to stay and help Margo get them settled. There’s only one other server on the floor, and since Margo is chained to the bar, there’s no way can she handle everyone at once.

I grab a pen and pad of paper and start toward the group, who are shoving tables together and arranging their seats, when the door swings open and Vince and Jackie rush in.

“Grace. Thank God.” Davis’s best friend looks alarmed. I’ve never seen Vince’s expression anything short of playful. A dart of dread ricochets through me as I glance over at his girlfriend. Jackie’s brown eyes are wide with alarm as well.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, business gaggle forgotten.

Vince does a quick survey of McGreevy’s. “Davis isn’t here?”

“No. He said he had a thing today.”

“Yeah. He does. He’s not at home.” Vince says this as if thinking to himself, his focus elsewhere in the room. His piercing blue eyes return to me. “When is the last time you saw him?”

I hesitate a moment before admitting, “He left my house just before midnight.”

Jackie’s alarm fades to a soft look of surprise, and even Vince forgets his immediate concerns to give me a lopsided smile.

“Nice,” he says approvingly. “When did this happen?”

“It’s pretty new,” I hedge. And pretty temporary, I decide not to add.

“If he comes in here, text me. Have your phone on you?” His cell is in his hand and he asks me for my phone number. I rattle it off, pulling my iPhone from my back pocket. Davis’s last text—a round peach that looks more like a lady’s derriere than a piece of fruit—sits on my screen with my follow-up texts. A new text pops up on my screen reading Vince.

“Got it.” Before I chicken out, I ask, “Is he okay?”

“He’ll be okay,” Vince assures me, but when he presses his lips together, I wonder if he means it. He grasps Jackie’s hand and asks if she wants to stay here while he goes and looks for Davis, and Jackie immediately turns to me.

“Grace, are you all right alone?” she asks. “I’ll stay here with you if you want me to.”

“I’m fine.” Gosh. That was nice. Jackie and I don’t know each other very well, but she’s genuinely offering to sit with me. I force a smile. “I have to get these customers settled, and then I’m done for the day.”

“You’re sure?” Jackie takes a step forward and tilts her pretty face.

“Totally sure. Thank you.” I don’t want to take her away from Vince, who looks like he might need her more than I do. I include him in my next statement. “Will you let me know he’s all right?”

“Will do, Gracie.” Vince uses Davis’s nickname for me, but it’s more brotherly coming from him.

I try not to worry about Davis as I take orders and make drinks. Vince and Jackie are on the case. After a bit of debate, I decide not to text Davis. I don’t want to bother him if he’s trying to be alone and deal with whatever “thing” he had last night.

On the drive back to my house, my evil imagination suggests he’s visiting an ex-girlfriend for some sex therapy or that he’s drunk himself into a stupor of mourning or rage, or maybe he wrecked his Mercedes and he’s lying in a ditch. I quickly dismiss the doom-filled thoughts. Davis isn’t the reckless type.

At seven o’clock I receive the text I’ve been waiting for from Vince.

Davis is at home. Fine but wants to be alone. Sorry to worry you.

I text back a simple Thanks, but my worries aren’t allayed.

I understand Davis wanting to be alone. Whenever something goes awry in my life, I prefer to suffer in silence too. I thumb through the memories of my past—those times I spent enduring by myself. Whether I was holed up in my teenage bedroom while my parents screamed at each other, sobbing in the stadium’s bathroom at the site of my college graduation because my father stood me up yet again, or soaking in a cooling tub of bathwater with a glass of wine after my stupid boyfriend of two years broke my stupid heart, being alone has been a horrible way to get through hard times.

What I wouldn’t have given for my mother to come into my bedroom and apologize for making me endure her and my father’s mutual hatred. Or for one of my friends to notice I was missing and come check on me in that stadium bathroom. I wish I’d called up Roxanne the time my stupid boyfriend broke my stupid heart. She would have listened. Sobbing on her shoulder would have helped.

I was too stubborn to admit that until now.

Davis doesn’t have to spend the evening enduring whatever tough time he’s going through alone. He has me.

I’m going over there. At the very least, he’s my friend and I have as much of a right to check on his well-being as Vince and Jackie.

With conviction, I button my coat and grab my purse and march out to my car. I arrive at his place in less than ten minutes and decide at his doorstep that I’m going to knock until he lets me in. If he doesn’t let me in, I’m going to knock until one of his neighbors lets me in.

I rap my knuckles on the door exactly five times before it opens. Davis is standing in the foyer, keys in hand.

“You’re wearing jeans,” I say, surprised to see him in denim and a button-down shirt. In anything other than a pressed suit and jacket. I eye the keys in his hand. “I hope you weren’t about to drive somewhere in your condition.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Where were you going?”

His gray eyes narrow. “Out.”

I cross the threshold and shut us inside. I worried on the way over here that Davis was sitting with whiskey bottle in hand, his tie and shirt askew, belting out show tunes. Instead he’s bright-eyed and smells of his crisp, pine-y cologne. “You don’t look drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.” His eyebrows crash over his nose. “What the hell are you doing here?” It’s not exactly a yell, but his voice has lost that calm, warm quality he exudes around me. The question stings, but I stand my ground.

“Vince came into McGreevy’s looking for you. He was worried.” I finger the button on my coat and admit, “He made me worry.”

Davis takes an intimidating step toward me, his voice a low warning. “What did he tell you?”

“Not much. That you were home and wanted to be alone.” I lick my lips nervously as I peer up at him. I ignored Vince’s advice, and now that I’m standing in front of Davis, I wonder if we’re friends after all. Did he give Vince and Jackie the same hard time? With no other explanation, I sort of repeat, “I was worried about you.”

“Worried I’d be drunk,” he states, his expression downgrading from enraged to peeved. “When have you ever seen me drunk, Gracie?”

I think back to all the times he’s sat at my bar and shake my head. “I haven’t.”

“Right. I drink. I don’t get drunk. I had a buzz earlier. Then I had a nap. Then I had a surprise visit from Vince and Jackie. And then I changed to come out and see you.”

That takes me a moment to digest.

“You were coming to see me?” I ask to be sure I heard him right.

“Yeah.”

“But you said this weekend.”

“I did.”

“Were you going to McGreevy’s?”

“I was going to start there.”

“I’m not there,” I whisper.

He smiles and catches my hand, tugging me close. His arm braces my back and his fingers slide into my hair. I’m rewarded with a soft, slow, deep Davis kiss. I sigh into his mouth and kiss him back.

When he pulls away, his fingers are massaging my scalp and his forehead is resting on mine. The arm at my back tightens and I wrap my arms around his shoulders and we hug.

We hug for a long while.

His heart thumps heavily against my breasts and he breathes out long and slow. I bet it’s the deepest breath he’s taken since he left my house last night.

“Don’t go” is all he says.

“I wasn’t planning on it.” I stroke his cheek and look into his eyes, seeing pain there.

He kisses me again before leading me up two sets of stairs to his bedroom. In front of his bed, he palms my hands and weaves our fingers together. We stand like that for a few beats before he lets go and starts on his shirt buttons. He bares his golden chest before he strips off my shirt. Together we unbutton and unzip our jeans, mirroring each other as we bend to slip off our shoes.

In a matter of seconds, Davis is in boxers, and I’m in my pale pink satin bra and panties.

He crooks a finger for me beckoning me to him. I still want to know what’s wrong with him. If anything is wrong with him. I don’t think I’m part of what’s wrong, considering he’s tossing my bra aside and plunging his hand into my panties to stroke my wetness. It further confirms he wants me here when he says those very words into my ear, his breath hot as I massage his thick cock with one hand.

“I want you, Gracie,” he breathes.

“You can have me, Davis,” I answer.

We make love in a different way from the first two times. Davis has always been respectful of my needs, but his kisses are more reverent tonight. He holds me tighter than before. His kisses linger, and his eyes don’t leave mine as we move together.

I experience that same planet-shifting sensation when we come together.

When we’ve recovered, Davis returns to bed and lies beside me, snuggling me close. I rest my head on his chest and stroke his chest with my fingers. I decided not to bring it up—to let Davis have his secret.

Evidently he has other plans.

His chest lifts and on a quiet sigh, he announces, “Today’s my wedding day.”

My hand stills its exploration. I prop myself on one elbow and regard him.

“You were…supposed to get married today?” My whisper is hollow, because—honestly?—I’m not sure what he’s confessing. That he’s had a fiancée the whole time he’s been offering “packages” to every blonde—and me—in Columbus? Or that he used to be married? That seems more likely. He doesn’t strike me as having a double life.

“Six years ago today, my life changed forever,” he says.

“I didn’t know you were married.”

Davis’s eyes are warm and relaxed. “I wasn’t.”