My Twice-worn Jacket

After my long overdue cleaning efforts, the cramped apartment shines—except for the rustic cherrywood drafting table in the living room corner. Lord knows how much dust and remaining heartache rests on its surface, hidden behind that dark curtain. Exactly a year’s worth of dust and heartache. To escape, I turn and pass through the doorway. Will she show?

The 627 white door swings closed with a—thunk!—and I twist the brass key into the lock.

Pa-ting!

Could it be? I whip out my phone to check the text. Damn. Not Liv.

7:55 PM Antonio:

Hey Nolan, sorry to bug you this late. Is there an offline SketchUp file for the Hayden Hall landscape? Having server issues…help?!

Yikes. Not directly my problem, but will be by our Monday morning review meeting at my alma mater. I’d prefer to go back to Northeastern at this point and get an IT degree to fix these consistent “server issues” myself. But with no motivation to even sketch these days, no way I’d survive any more school. I shake my head and respond.

7:55 PM

Not at my comp. Call Marcus.

To reach the elevator, I walk to the right along the narrow hallway, stuffing my hands into my brown waxed jacket. The same jacket Liv had gifted me last Valentine’s Day, and I now hadn’t worn since trying it on that first time. Nothing had prepared me to navigate life as an ex-fiancé, and amid that romantic gift exchange, my generosity and innocence had failed me.

Pa-ting!

Liv? My phone screen brightens as I hit the elevator button. Nope.

7:56 PM Antonio:

No worries. Thanks, boss. Have a good weekend!

With my messages open, I tap on Liv’s name and reread my last text—still unanswered.

Fri, Feb 7 at 10:05 AM

Liv, I know it’s been almost a year and you’re probably in a new relationship by now, but if you’re feeling lonely next Friday, would you want to meet at Sampson’s for a drink? 8pm, I’ll be there. If I could explain everything to you, I’d really appreciate the opportunity.

Ding—ding!

The metallic silver doors slide apart, and I enter the wooden brown cabin. Of course, the canvas painting across the back still tortures me if I stare at it for too long. Reminds me too much of the white cottage house upstate with the green metal roof and raised vegetable beds beside the square-columned front porch.

***

Liv jiggled my pink-wrapped present in her hands.

“Hmm…doesn’t seem breakable,” she said, raising her eyebrows behind the tortoise round glasses she had gotten refitted last week.

“No, I should hope not,” I teased. This new fancy waxed jacket swallowed my arms, but I reached over my fiancée’s shoulder and rubbed her velvet dress sleeve. Meanwhile, she grabbed the present’s corner flap.

Shhhrrrip!

Liv gasped. “Nolan…wait…is this?”

“Yeah, babe.”

Mouth agape, she swiped her hand across the glass frame.

“But you…even drew the—”

“Raised vegetable beds,” I interjected. “I know.”

“Aww, Nolan. It’s our dream house.” And Liv lowered her head, full of auburn-brown hair, onto my shoulder. The 9” x 12” black-and-white pencil sketch rested in her hands as we cuddled on the apartment living room leather couch.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Liv.” I pecked the top of her head; the cherry almond shampoo scent graced my nose. In the following stillness, my phone vibrated. Liv dropped her palm on my pants pocket.

“Mm, sorry, babe,” I said, fighting my arousal. “Let me make sure that isn’t about work.”

I withdrew my phone, dodging Liv’s eager hand, and opened the new message.

7:37 PM Bree:

Hi Nol, thinking about you tonight <3 I’d really love to talk to you soon—

“Uhh, excuse me?” Liv erupted before I could disable the screen.

“Wait, babe. That’s not what—”

“What the hell are you doing texting my sister?”

“No, Liv! She just texted me, I didn’t—”

***

“Aye! Wahtch it, pahl.” My shoulder had grazed a burly man as I exited the sliding lobby doors.

Now Boston’s frigid air slices through my jacket as I move along the damp sidewalk. Piles of spoiled, mushy snow line the street’s edge. After next year, I’ll have endured more winters here than anywhere else in my life. And after tonight’s visit to Sampson’s, I’ll have had more drinks than, well—who’s counting, anyway? I keep my arms tight to my body as I head toward the weathered corner bar. Meanwhile, the tires of regular nighttime traffic slosh through the street beside me.

Bree’s text message last year had arrived at the worst possible time. I’d told Liv repeatedly that nothing was happening between her sister and me. But my now-ex-fiancée couldn’t stand the circumstances. True, I had talked to Bree when we visited Liv’s family around Christmas, and she was not shy to confide in me about her recent breakup, work-induced stress, and mental health struggles. That went sideways. I had never expected one honest, comforting conversation to turn into the ruin of my engagement. And now, on this day, I’m trudging along the murky pavement, a single man hoping the love of my life will answer my invitation.

A young couple, hand-in-hand, stumbles past me, cackling. Should I turn back with them? Liv hadn’t responded to my message anyway, and I’m certain she still hates my guts. I’d be better off staying home to clean that damn drafting table. Instead, I head forward to liquor.

As I reach the street corner, the red tube window lights glow on the pavement in front of Sampson’s. I tuck under the overhang and spin to check the vicinity for Liv. There’s no way she’d show, right? I stand here, in my idiocy, desperate to believe my love would remove my label as a pathetic, selfish liar. A fierce wind whips through my twice-worn jacket. With a sniffle, I turn and slip through the thick black door.

The familiar stench of stale beer and wood polish greets me. Altogether, only three other patrons sit inside: a couple in the corner booth and a young woman hunched over at the counter’s nearside. My buffed shoes crack and creak across the sticky floor as I head to my regular spot. The counter’s last stool beside the busted jukebox had earned my butt imprint—I’d rather stand than sit anywhere else.

As I settle onto my treasured cushion, Edwin, the weekend bartender, emerges from the passable kitchen.

“Heya, Nolan! My friend, how ya doin’?” He asks, leaning over the black countertop with his fiery-red beard.

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Aye, let me tell ya—oh, ya got a new jahcket, huh?”

I straighten the ribbed collar around my neck. “Well, sort of. New-ish.”

Edwin grunts. “Fancy you. So, what—ya wahnt the usual?”

“Uhh, one sec,” I say, withdrawing my phone from my pants pocket. 8:00 PM. My misery cries to get started without Liv. But my yearning to greet her while I’m still sober, at least for a minute, coddles me.

“Give me a few minutes.”

“Whahtevah.” And the bartender rolls his eyes, spinning to wipe the black surface behind him.

Perched above the near liquor rack, the muted TV shows the NBA All-Star Celebrity Game. Hell if I could name any of those Hollywood millionaires and spoiled athletes. I guess not everyone can contribute to improving our environment and connectivity with nature. But as more and more technology has swamped this city, there may not be much living world left to design soon. I shake my head. As I trade glances between the TV screen and the front door, my neck shrieks for hard liquor.

Ugh. C’mon, Liv. We could’ve been celebrating our first Valentine’s as newlyweds, well on our way to saving up for our dream house upstate. With elbows on the counter, I lock my fingers behind my straining neck, closing my eyes. The drafting table floats through the darkness. Once a daily habit, sketching had grown so repulsive without my love to draw for. If I were really that selfish, wouldn’t I only ever draw for myself? How’s that work if I have only ever drawn for others? This entire “receiving gifts” torment follows me everywhere.

Clink!

My eyes open to a crystal shot glass. Edwin smirks, rubbing his freckled hands together.

“Hey, I said—”

“Nah, nah, my friend. A gift from the girl.” The bartender nods over his shoulder. “Ya know, she’s been drahwing over there for an hour, yeah?”

The girl? She’s a dozen seats away at the other end of the bar. Next to an empty shot glass of her own, the curly brown-haired woman holds a dark pen in her right hand, sketching or scribbling on a small notepad. The dim lighting leaves shadows that conceal most of her face. Intent on ignoring my gaze, she continues penning into the paper. I slowly rotate the smooth shot glass atop the polished countertop, the amber liquid tempting me to void my still pending invitation.

Edwin shifts his hands to the counter’s edge. “All these nights ya leave ‘ere ahlone, c’mon—go tahlk to this new girl, will ya?”

I cut my eyes, rubbing my scruffy chin. The long-time weekend bartender concedes to my contemplation and shuffles out of sight through the kitchen door. While I keep spinning the tiny glass, the whiskey spices reach my cold nose. Who is this girl? Why the hell would she come to Sampson’s? On Valentine’s? Alone? Ten years ago, I’d have waited around and asked Edwin to send a reciprocal drink—enjoyed a subtle game of cat-and-mouse. Now at age thirty-four and reeling without Liv, the initial flirting repulses me.

With the whiskey shot in hand, I stand and straighten my waxed jacket. As I walk over to the artistic girl—with excellent beverage taste—this once oversized coat actually forms to my body. In her taupe sweater, she remains fixated on her notepad, ignoring my approach. I sniff the liquor and within a few feet of the mystery girl, the bar’s black front door eases open with a groan.