As the L train flitted along the track in the darkening city, no one noticed the young woman sobbing in the plastic seats at the back of the car. But then, was she sobbing? She certainly felt like crying. She stared into her reflection in the window across the body of the train and saw there were no tears streaking her face. No gasps escaped her chest. In fact, she looked utterly demure, calm.
Definitely not like a woman who'd just found out her fiance was cheating on her with her best friend.
She tucked her long, black hair behind an ear as she examined her reflection. Nope, definitely not crying. Strange. She should be crying, she should be screaming and throwing things. That's what people did in the movies when they walked in on their naked fiance with his dick deep in another woman. But she hadn't. She'd barely made a noise. Even when he shifted aside and she saw the woman was her best friend, the friend she'd known 11 years, the one who was going to be her maid of honor.
Even then, all she'd done was let out an embarrassed huff, turned, and left.
Now she sat on the L train with no destination in mind and her phone turned off in her left hand. She'd shut it off after the fourth call from them and seventh text. Them. She idly wondered how long they'd been a "them". Shuddering, she found she didn't want to know right now.
She also didn't want to go back to her own apartment. She didn't want to call anyone. What did she want right now?
Being honest, she wanted a fucking drink.
At the next stop, she hopped off the L in a familiar neighborhood. She knew these buildings and streets well. Her feet led her away from the station to a little pub with a green four leaf clover neon sign over the door. The green was a stark contrast with the warmer colored street lights. She pulled open the heavy door by its ornate iron handle and was greeted by the smells of a classic dive bar. Cheap beer, fried food, and stale smoke. Perfect.
The sound of Irish music and male laughter along with the clinking and sloshes of a restaurant pulled her in further. Right inside the door was a chalkboard with a crude drawing of a hand raising its middle finger and the words "Seat your fucking self" scrawled lazily beside.
She smiled.
The room was dim and small with a few booths along the wall. Decorative tin ceiling tiles reflected the lights above her. She remembered pointing them out the only other time she'd been here.
Her fiance, Mark, had ushered her in for a quick drink on their way home one night out. She pointed out the interesting ceiling much to his amusement.
"Of course you'd notice the ceiling, you're always looking up, babe!" He snickered and kissed the top of her head condescendingly.
This was true. At just five feet tall, most of the time she was looking up. Even in heels, as she wore tonight, she was shorter than every adult on the train and most of the teenagers.
"Did you hear me? What can I get ya?" A lilting Irish accent interrupted her thoughts. She didn't realize she'd made her way to the gleaming, mahogany bar top.
"Oh! I'm sorry. I, uh, don't know yet."
A stunning, strawberry blonde leaned over the bar, looking expectantly, "Well, what are ya in the mood for, hun?" Her words chopped together, connecting consonants in a distinctly Irish way.
"What would you drink if you just found your fiance in bed with your best friend?" She chuckled darkly.
"Oh. Shit." The bartender pressed her lips together. "I'll be right back."
Taking off her jacket and letting her work bag fall to the floor, she dropped onto a barstool. Her sleek black hair fell forward a bit as she looked down at the coaster in front of her. "O'Grady's" was spelled out in a swooping green font.
"Here we go," the bartender returned with a tall, dark bottle and a pint of Guinness. "The second best way to forget a bastard." She grinned as she poured a shot. "What's his name anyway?"
"Mark."
"Right. Fuck Mark!" The blonde pushed her the shot and laughed as she coughed over the strong liquor. "Guinness chaser."
The beer was cold and bitter. Not usually her thing, but she had a feeling any alcohol was her thing tonight.
The bartender poured another shot, "What's your name, hun?"
"Haddie."
"Nice to meet you, Haddie. I'm Cameron. Sorry for your shit night, first shot's on me."
"Thanks," Haddie grimaced and took the second shot.
"No problem, let me know if you need anything else." Cameron took the bottle back to the shelf and headed to help a few young guys who'd just arrived at the bar.
Haddie nursed her beer and debated turning her phone back on. She really didn't want to hear from them. In fact, she couldn't even bring herself to care if they were still at Mark's apartment together. Oddly, she did think about Lucy's bridesmaid dress, which was currently at Haddie's apartment in the closet.
Lucy. Her best friend. The one who pulled her out of her shell in college, got her to go out and meet people. Hell, Lucy was the reason Haddie had her current job. She was there when she and Mark met and when they got engaged. Lucy was helping plan the wedding. Well, not anymore, Haddie snorted.
The shots and beer were reaching her head faster than she'd expected. She shook her hair back away from her face and eyed the small TV over the bar. It was on the ten o'clock news. Clearly, this wasn't a sports bar. The music and lack of large TVs gave the distinct impression that drinking and eating were the business of the pub.
Hmm, eating, thought Haddie. I should probably eat something. She'd planned to have a late bite at Mark's when she got to his apartment. Coming straight from a long night at work, which happened about once a week, she liked to raid his fridge while winding down. He was always so sweet to her. He kept a shelf in his pantry with her favorite snacks and always had a bottle of wine for those late nights. Wonder if Lucy will get that wine now, she thought.
"Need anything?" Cameron slid over to Haddie, wiping the bar as she came.
"Food?" Haddie brushed a few stray, black strands over her shoulder.