"A beer," Derek ordered, flagging down the bartender as he lifted himself onto one of the barstools. "Please," he added as an afterthought.
The bar was relatively dead this early in the afternoon, which suited him just fine. He really wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone – what he wanted was to wallow in alcohol and self-pity until he couldn't remember his own name, let alone the way Emily had stomped all over his heart.
"A beer?" the bartender repeated skeptically. "How old are you, kid?"
He flicked his fake ID onto the bar with a clatter of plastic against the polished wood surface. It was a good fake – it had better be for the price he'd paid – so it should hold up to the bartender's intense scrutiny.
He'd gotten the fake a couple of months ago from one of Emily's friends – a guy named Clyde Easter – but he hadn't used it until now, too worried about being found out. Even today, he'd taken two buses to get to the other side of the city so he'd be far enough away from campus that no one would recognize him and out him for barely being old enough to drive a car. Part of him was still worried that word would somehow get back to his coach or, God forbid, his mother...but he was willing to take that chance today.
Eventually, the bartender seemed to decide his ID to be legitimate, pulling him a pint from the tap and setting it in front of him, sending some of the foamy head sliding down the sides of the glass. "So, what is it?" he asked vaguely, leaning against the bar.
"Hmm?"
"The reason you're drowning your sorrows at three in the afternoon..."
"It's nothing," Derek said darkly, staring at the beer with intensity that could have shattered glass.
The bartender nodded knowingly. "Ah. Girl troubles."
Derek looked up sharply, one brow raised in silent question.
"Let's just say I'm familiar with the face of a broken man. After three divorces, you tend to recognize the look," he explained.
"Three divorces?" Derek repeated incredulously. "I'm not sure you're qualified to be giving advice about women..."
The bartender laughed heartily, then offered Derek a hand to shake. "Dave Rossi," he introduced himself.
He furrowed his brow in thought. "Dave Rossi the mob guy?" he asked
"Hey now," Dave said, holding up his hands in self defense. "That's just a rumour. And if I catch you spreading it, you'll wear cement shoes..." He winked to show he was only kidding. "So, what's the story with this girlfriend of yours?"
"She's not my girlfriend anymore," Derek corrected bitterly. He shook his head, sighed. "I thought I was going to marry her," he lamented. "Then I found out she'd been engaged to this other guy the whole time..."
Dave nodded sagely. "But you still love her..." he said. It wasn't a question.
"She says she never loved him and I'd like to believe her, but..." He trailed off, shook his head.
"But you don't want to be burned a second time," Dave finished his thought.
Derek sighed. "What do I do, man?" he asked. He wasn't sure whether he was hoping his advice would be to forgive her or forget her...
"You want the honest answer?" Dave asked.
He shrugged, really not certain either way.
"You've got to decide whether what you had together is worth fighting for," he said simply. "Relationships aren't like in sitcoms. You'll both fuck up, but sometimes you've got to love them because they fucked up, not in spite of it."
Derek mulled that over for a moment, finger tracing patterns in the condensation pooling on the bar. "Did you ever love anyone that much?" he asked quietly. "When you first saw them you knew you'd love them for the rest of your life?"
"Once," he answered, gaze becoming far off and wistful. "Her name was Emma... We never quite got the timing right, but God..." He didn't seem to know how to finish that sentence. "I loved her more than anything."
"So, you think I should forgive her?"
Dave shrugged. "But what do I know? The only people I've ever made happy are divorce lawyers."
Derek snorted in amusement. "Thanks, man." He stood, reaching for his wallet. "So, what do I owe you for the beer?"
"It's on the house," Dave said. "Considering you didn't drink a drop of it..." He waited until Derek had his hand on the door handle to speak up again, "And hey, kid... Good luck at the Olympics."
Derek turned around, eyes wide. "How did you...?"
He just smirked back at him, but said nothing.
"Hey, man, where have you been?"
"Out," Derek grunted in response to Matt's question because he certainly wasn't about to confess where he'd actually been knowing Matt would tell Kristy who would tell Savannah and so on...until half the school knew.
"Well, duh," Matt said with a roll of his eyes, but didn't comment further sensing Derek's obviously sour mood.
Thankful for the lack of questioning, Derek crossed the room to his desk, catching sight of the picture frame holding a picture taken on his first date with Emily – she was smiling brightly at the camera, caught in a moment of laughter, while he was staring at her like she was his whole entire world. Part of him was tempted to tear the picture to shreds, to obliterate it the way he wished he could do with all the memories of her, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it.
As he set the frame back down, he caught sight of an unfamiliar envelope sitting on top of the pile of unfinished homework. "What's this?" he asked, holding it up so Matt could see.
Matt shrugged. "It was slipped under the door when I got here," he said, "It's got your name on it."
Sure enough, when he flipped it over, his name was scrawled across it in Emily's unmistakable handwriting. Opening it up, in spite of the spiteful little part of him that was tempted to just throw the whole thing away unread, he tipped the contents into his palm: a dried flower and a small notecard.
The flower he recognized as being from the bouquet he'd brought her for their first date. On the notecard was written the following: A step backward after making a wrong turn is a step in the right direction.
