Fifty two

Fifty two
Reid
The bar was quiet — the kind of place where no one asked questions and the whiskey was poured strong. Exactly what I needed.
I sat at the far end, away from the clusters of after-work drinkers and couples leaning too close together. The low hum of conversation blended with the soft clink of glasses, and the dim lighting made everything feel removed — distant in a way that matched my mood.
Across from me, Andrew watched with mild amusement as I downed my drink. “Rough day?”
“You could say that.”
He signaled for another round, settling back in his seat like he had all the time in the world. “Let me guess. Work?”
“Fallon.”
The name slipped out before I could stop it.
Andrew’s brows shot up. “The wife?”
I ignored the tone — the slight edge of disbelief like he couldn’t quite picture me discussing my personal life. Hell, I couldn’t quite picture it either. But here I was, drinking too fast and talking too much.
“We had a fight,” I said, setting my empty glass down with more force than necessary.
Andrew looked entirely too entertained. “About?”
“Coffee.”
He blinked. “Coffee.”
“It wasn’t about the damn coffee.”
The bartender slid a fresh glass of whiskey in front of me, and I took a slower sip this time — feeling the burn, letting it settle.
Andrew was still watching me. “You two have been walking around like strangers since the wedding. Why’s this bothering you now?”
That was the part I couldn’t figure out.
“She’s been on edge,” I said slowly, swirling the amber liquid in my glass. “And I’ve been… busy.”
Andrew snorted. “Business as usual.”
“Exactly.”
And yet here I was. Drinking. Complaining. Letting my wife take up space in my head when I had far bigger things to focus on.
Andrew studied me for a beat, his expression shifting from amused to curious. “And yet you’re here. Drinking. Complaining about your wife.”
“I’m not complaining.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Right. You’re just giving a very impassioned speech about coffee.”
I shot him a look, but the edge of my mouth twitched despite myself. “It wasn’t about the coffee.”
“Then what was it about?”
I didn’t answer right away. Because I wasn’t sure I knew.
It wasn’t just the fight. It was everything leading up to it.
The silence in the house — the way our separate wings felt like entirely different worlds. The way we passed each other in the hallways with polite nods and nothing more. The public show we put on — hands on waists, smiles for the cameras — while living separate lives behind closed doors.
It was the look on her face when I walked away.
The hurt she tried to hide.
“She thinks I don’t care,” I said, more to myself than Andrew. The words felt strange in my mouth — too vulnerable, too close to something I wasn’t ready to name.
Andrew tilted his head, watching me with an expression I didn’t like. Too perceptive. Too amused. “Do you?”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
Or maybe I did — and I just didn’t want to admit it.
The Cracks in the Armor
We sat in silence for a while, the weight of the question hanging between us. I took another sip of whiskey, feeling the slow burn spread through my chest, but it did nothing to settle the ache sitting there.
“You knew what you were signing up for,” Andrew said after a moment, his voice softer than before. “Didn’t she?”
“She did.” The words were automatic — the same thing I’d told myself a hundred times. The same thing I’d told Fallon that morning.
But it didn’t feel like enough.
“She wanted separate lives,” I said, more defensively than I meant to. “Her own space. Her own career. We agreed on that from the start.”
Andrew’s brow lifted. “And yet here you are.”
I scowled. “Do you have a point?”
“Just wondering why you’re this worked up over a woman you’re supposedly keeping at arm’s length.”
The Problem I Can’t Name
I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell him he was wrong — that it didn’t matter, that Fallon was a convenient arrangement and nothing more.
But the words wouldn’t come.
Because it did matter.
It mattered when I passed her room at night and saw the light still on, knowing she was awake but not going to her. It mattered when I found her on the other side of the house, laughing on the phone with someone else — a sound I hadn’t heard in days. It mattered when I saw her smile for the cameras but never for me.
And it mattered when she’d stormed out this morning — her face pale, her eyes bright with hurt.
It mattered way too much.
“I think she hates me,” I said, the words low and bitter.
Andrew looked unconvinced. “She doesn’t hate you.”
“She called me an ass.”
“Well.” He grinned. “She’s not wrong.”
I flipped him off, and he laughed, the sound cutting through some of the tension — but only some.
The truth was, I didn’t know where we went from here.
Every time I reached for her, she pulled away. And every time she got too close, I pushed her back. We were stuck in this endless cycle of distance and frustration, and I didn’t know how to break it.
Or if she even wanted me to.
“What do I do?” I asked quietly, the words surprising even me.
Andrew blinked. “You’re asking me for relationship advice?”
“Forget it.”
“No, no.” He held up a hand, grinning. “This is historic. I’m honored.”
I shook my head, half-smiling despite myself.
But the question still hung there, unanswered.
By the time we left the bar, the whiskey had done its job — dulling the frustration but not the ache beneath it.
As I stepped into the cool night air, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, half-hoping for her name — and hating myself for it.
But it wasn’t Fallon.
Of course it wasn’t.
And as I slid the phone back into my jacket, one thought kept circling in my mind:
I wasn’t ready to admit how much I wanted her to call.
head.