“Thanks, but I’ve got one,” I said, raising my glass so he could see that I was still nursing my gin.
“You’re not going to stop at one, are you?” he said in mock surprise, leaning a little on the vacant chair so that I knew he’d accept the seat if I offered it. I didn’t.
“I’m the designated driver,” I said, before taking a large sip.
“Oh, you’re here with someone?” he said, swinging his head from side to side like a Labrador, searching the crowd for my companion. I didn’t answer; it seemed safer to let him think so. He gave up and brought his gaze back to me, lurching a little against the chair. He was clearly on beer six or seven. “I’ve never seen you here before. You live nearby?”
“Oh, not too far away.”
He smiled at this as if I’d given him my address. “You remind me of someone—can you guess who?”
I shook my head, cringing as I anticipated what was coming.
“Amy Winehouse.”
Incorrectly interpreting the surprise on my face, he added, “Hey, that’s a compliment. She was a good-looking chick, when she wasn’t, you know—”
“Shit-faced?” I said dryly.
“Yeah, ’zactly.” He swallowed the last of his beer, tilting the glass back to suck every bit of foam out. “Do you need another?”
I shook my head and he nodded again, raising his glass in a salute before letting go of the chair and listing in the direction of the bar.
Ray Fortini set the phone down as he refilled shots for a couple. Then he pulled a draft for a man, the phone still out on the counter. It was just sitting there and his back was turned. If I could just reach it in time. As I rose from my chair, a group of women stepped in front of me and I couldn’t see the bar. I craned my neck, trying to see around them. Was it too late? A crowd clustered in front of the wall-mounted flat-screen in the opposite corner cheered as the Penguins scored. I pushed past the women and wiggled through the crowd to the bar. I looked up and down the long sleek surface, but it was too late. The phone was gone.
Ray Fortini turned at that moment to look at me. “Get you something?” My pulse jumped, but he only stared at me inquiringly, yet disinterested, no recognition in his dark eyes.
“Gin and tonic,” I said, adding, “Hendrick’s, please.”
“You got it.” He turned away and I checked the mirror behind the bar, hoping it would reflect what was under the counter, but it sat too high and there were too many liquor bottles in the way.
“Oh my God, I love it!” I heard someone say behind me, and then there was humming before someone started singing, “‘If I could turn back time…’”
“Here you go.” Ray Fortini slid my drink across the counter, plopping a stirrer in it.
“Thanks.”
“My pleasure.” A quick flash of a grin, easy charm, and he was already turning away to get someone else’s order. Phone nowhere in sight.
Someone tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around, expecting to see the guy who’d hit on me earlier, but instead there were two twentysomething men grinning at me, one black, one white, both with shaved heads, wearing coordinated checked shirts, one blue, one green. A matched set. “Oh my God, you’re so cute!” the white guy squealed.
“Ditto,” I said, enjoying a sip of my drink.
“We love Cher,” the black guy said. “Are these extensions?” He reached out a hand to touch the wig and I leaned back so he only brushed the ends.
“Yeah,” I said, trying to smile.
“It’s like you’re Librarian Cher—I love it,” the white guy said.
“Super fresh,” the other guy added.
“Thanks.” I forced another smile as I inched backward, before turning and bolting through the crowd for the corner, my drink held high.
My table had been taken over, so I leaned against the wall, sweating a little and wishing I weren’t here alone. Julie would have known how to handle that conversation.
I pulled out my phone, but there were no updates from Julie and Alison or messages from Heather. The bar was getting progressively more crowded. It was only Tuesday night, and not that late, but the Pens game was a big draw. Lots of yinzers wearing team jerseys jostled in front of the wall-mounted screens, bellowing happily every time we scored. I sipped my drink and kept an eye on Ray Fortini, waiting and hoping he’d pull out his phone again. I’d move faster next time, just swipe it off the bar. I played through the scenario multiple times in my head, mapping various routes to the bar and out the door and onto the street, but he was too busy serving drinks and the phone never reappeared.
Just as I was starting to wonder if this was going to fail totally, I saw a striking-looking woman walk behind the bar, tying a small apron around her waist. She had magenta hair with black tips and wore a black T-shirt cut to flatter her figure. She put a hand on his arm and leaned in to say something to him, clearly struggling to be heard over the competing din of hockey game, rock music, and loud conversation. He nodded at whatever she said and then, gripping the back of her neck, pulled her in for a lingering kiss. Someone seated at the bar applauded and she pulled away first, laughing. He grinned at her, swiping some things from under the counter, and walked toward the back, slapping her on the ass as he passed.
He was going out the back. Shit! Was he off work? I’d been so engrossed in their encounter that I hadn’t realized she was his replacement. He disappeared through a service door and I quickly swallowed the rest of my drink, shoved a twenty at a waitress, and pushed out the front door. Trying to look nonchalant, I walked around to the parking lot in the back, breaking into a run only when I was out of sight of the front door.
I scoured the lot and there it was—his Harley. At that moment, a back door banged open and I ducked behind the corner, peering around the side as Ray Fortini stepped outside, pulling on a jacket. I pulled out my phone, starting to text Julie and Alison that he was leaving, but then I realized that he hadn’t gotten on the bike. He took a seat at an old picnic table on a dingy concrete patio just to the left of the door, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit up.
It was just a break—he wasn’t leaving. I was so relieved that I sagged against the building. I glanced at my phone and saw that I’d missed several texts. Before I could read them, the back door opened again and I looked around the corner as the skinny male waiter, barely recognizable in a puffy parka, came outside carrying a plastic snack basket and what looked like a soft drink. He deposited his food on the table, hitching up his sagging chinos and taking a seat across from Fortini, who reached into the basket and helped himself to what looked like fries. The guy protested, turning sideways to try to shelter his food, but Fortini only laughed, half-standing to reach across the table and grab some more.
Looking back down at my phone, I saw that one of the texts was from Heather. “About time,” I muttered, stopping short when I read the message: At hospital—miscarriage.
I stared in shock at the screen for a moment, wishing I hadn’t sent that complaining voice mail. Just as I started to type a sympathetic—and apologetic—message, a new text came, this one from Eric: CALL ME.
Crap. I looked over at the table. Ray was talking and smoking, half his attention on the waiter, the other half on his phone. I ducked back around the corner and quickly called home. Eric sounded harried. “Do you know where Josh left his blanket?”
The fragments of a soft, once baby-blue blanket given to him as an infant and carried around so religiously that all that was left was a gray knotted string that he couldn’t sleep without. “I don’t know—did you check under his bed?”