On The Rocks

I nod, slurping up the last remaining bit of my drink, looking at the empty glass sadly, and then smiling big when the waitress magically appears and sets a full one in front of me. “It’s not my place.”


“Exactly,” Casey says and slaps the table. “Just like it’s not your place to push him to stay. Take the pack off, Gabby. He’ll come to the decision that’s best for him, and we’ll just both secretly hope that he’ll stay.”

“I feel bad that I’m secretly hoping he’ll stay.”

“It will be our little secret, okay?”

“‘Kay,” I tell her and take a deep drink.

And just like that, my problems seem to be solved. I’ll fully support Hunter in his decision, but I’ll secretly hope, pray, light candles at church, and offer up a virgin sacrifice, if only he’ll stay here with me.

And I also pray that if he does stay, he doesn’t come to regret it, and he most specifically doesn’t come to regret staying because of me.





“Five ball, corner pocket,” I say as I line up my shot. Drawing my cue back along the valley between my thumb and forefinger, I focus on the orange ball, drawing an imaginary line from the pocket, straight through the ball, across the table, and to my stick. Pulling back, I release a gentle tap on the cue ball and watch as it smoothly rolls toward the five. Knowing without a doubt my shot was perfect, I don’t even stay to watch the five sink into the pocket, but start moving my way around the table to line up my next shot.

“You still haven’t lost your touch, dude,” John says in reverence.

“Yeah, well, owning a bar does have its perks. I get to practice a lot more.”

John laughs as he leans on his own pool cue, scratching at the beard on his face. “Remember that little bar in Peniche we were in, and they had that beat-up, old pool table that had a huge groove right in the middle. And we had to structure all our shots around it?”

Smiling, I nod, “Seven ball… side pocket.”

Sinking the shot with ease, I stand up and look at John. “And remember that Portuguese girl that came in, betting us ten euro a ball? She kicked our asses. Knew every way around that damn groove in the table.”

Chuckling, John says, “Yeah… those were good times.”

“The best,” I affirm.

Leaning over to take my last shot, I tap the far bumper with my cue, indicating a bank shot, and then nod to the bottom left pocket. Just as a draw my stick back, John says, “Let’s make a bet on this shot.”

Cocking an eyebrow at him, I ask, “What do you have in mind?”

“How about if you miss it, you really tell me what’s on your mind as far as surfing again? None of this wishy-washy shit you’ve been handing everyone.”

“And if I make it?”

John shoots me an evil grin. “Then you still tell me honestly what’s on your mind.”

Bending over, I do a quick line up, pull my stick back, and give a short punch to the cue ball. With perfection, it hits the eight ball, banks off the back bumper, and rolls cleanly in the bottom pocket.

I throw my stick on the table, indicating I’m done, and glance across the bar. Sasha is engaged in a game of darts with a few of the locals, so I have some time to talk to John privately.

I walk over to a corner table and sit down, waiting for John to follow. Sipping at my beer, I look out across the bar again and watch Sasha. John follows my gaze but patiently waits for me to talk.

“I loved your sister,” I tell him candidly.

“I know,” he says softly. “But not enough.”

“No,” I agree with him. “Not enough.”