“AT LEAST WE went to bed together after that.”

I was back at the same bar as yesterday. It was after eight, and the girl with the purple cowboy boots, the one who’d been such a good listener, was working again. “That’s the only time in recent memory we’ve actually gone to sleep at the same time.”

“And did you—?”

I sipped the elaborate cocktail she’d made me when I asked for a beer. It was delicious. “No ... neither of us were in the mood after that news. But he held me. I fell asleep in his arms.”

She sighed, nodding her understanding. Today she was wearing a bright green tank top that was pretty much the color of that Tokyo Tea she’d made yesterday. Plus a denim skirt, the cowboy boots, the nose ring, and huge feathery earrings that looked like fishing lures. She was definitely an unusual temporary bartender.

I took another sip of my drink. It had amaretto and citrus, but it was a far cry from a usual amaretto sour. Maybe it was an amaretto sour on steroids. Under other circumstances, I’d ask her for the ingredients. But tonight, all I felt was shock. Worry. And fear. “If this could happen to them—to the strongest couple I know—then it seems like it could happen to us.”

I’d finally voiced my biggest fear. Even just saying it aloud seemed to give it power. Resisting the urge to knock on the honey-blond wood of the bar, I looked at the woman in front of me. Bartenders, even temporary ones, were supposed to be good at helping people with their problems, right? Like less stuffy psychiatrists?

“Technically, it could happen to anyone,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s going to happen to everyone.”

“But what’s to keep it from happening to us?”

“You,” she said simply.

I tapped the red stirrer from my drink against my napkin, spilling drops of amber liquid. “I can’t even manage to have sex with my super-hot husband ... how am I supposed to fix our marriage?”

“I meant you, plural,” she said, smiling at the mention of ‘super-hot husband.’ “You guys already know that you’re having problems. So seems like the best thing you can do at this point is get to work on solving them.”

Did she really think it was that simple? “What, should we both quit our jobs and move to the countryside and work twenty-five hours a week in retail? Then we’d have plenty of time to see each other ... no health insurance, no living wages, but plenty of time.”

She shrugged. “If that’s what floats your boat. Or you could consider mixing drinks. It’s fun. You get to see people making messes of their lives and make them feel better with alcohol.”

“I’m not making a mess of my life.”

“You’re not making it less messy, either.”

Who was this annoying, truth-speaking cocktail mistress? “I don’t know how.”

“Look, you and your husband have how many years of higher education between you? And your jobs—you’re both problem-solvers there, right? So apply some of those same skills at home. You find solutions for your clients at work, people you barely know. If you can solve problems for virtual strangers, you should be able to find some answers for yourself and the person you know better than anyone else in the world. You’ve just got to take a step back and look at this more objectively. Don’t think about how you’re hurt. Don’t think about how you’re scared. Don’t think about how badly you need to get laid. Think about what motivates you and Ian.”

Wow. That was quite a lecture. Fortunately, she got called away to make a drink, so I had a little time to digest what she’d said. And she was right. Not sure how she’d pegged me and Ian so quickly, but we were problem-solvers. As long as they were other people’s problems.

When she came back around, I focused on the flaw in her plan. “It’s just never going to be enough, us wanting to spend more time together, wanting to do more things together. We both want it. But it’s not possible with our jobs.”

“Okay, so, your jobs are a fixed variable. That’s not going to change. So you have to change other things.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s like when shit happens. You can’t change that, and you can’t avoid it. So you have to change how you react to it.”

“Like how? Am I supposed to embrace the shit?”

She laughed. “Now there’s one hell of a mental picture. But no. When bad stuff does happen, try to re-write the way you react to it. The way you deal with it. You’re always going to be busy. A block of free time to fix your marriage is never going to fall into your lap. You have to make it happen.”

She paused, stabbing a maraschino cherry with a tiny cocktail sword and popping it into her mouth. “Like I said, what motivates the two of you? What would motivate you to direct your brains and energy and ambition into doing something proactive for your marriage instead of your jobs?”

I thought about it. We were both plenty motivated at work. At home, we were often too exhausted to feel passionate about anything. Except ... “Well, Ian’s super competitive. He can never resist a challenge if something’s at stake.”

“And you?”

“I’m pretty competitive, too.”

“Such a rare quality in a lawyer.”

I smiled in spite of myself, in spite of the situation. The world needed more snarky bartenders with nose rings. “So what do I do, say that the one who fixes our marriage wins a prize?”

“If you can’t think of anything better,” she said, taking away my empty glass. “But somehow I think you can.”