Whiskey

It’s kind of hard to tell a married man that you’re carrying his child because you both fucked up a month ago.

He already has a child, by the way. Which kind of makes it harder.

And he happens to be quite a bit older than you. By ten years, in fact.

And he’s your boss.

**

So you’re 20, bartending your way through college; being a young, attractive woman working in a bar not far from a university makes for good tips on the weekends. Plus, the food is good, and even though you’re not really supposed to, you like to make yourself an order of Sloppy Fries and munch on them behind the bar when it’s slow.

Jared is 30 and the owner. He sees you do this. Sometimes he just rolls his eyes and other times he says, “You really can’t keep doing this, Jenna.” You shrug, and toss a fry into your mouth in front of him, taunting him. “I’m serious,” he says. “Knock it off, or you’ll be replaced.”

Jared is one of the most aesthetically pleasing men you have ever seen. His biceps are toned and the perfect size (visibly muscular, but not overwhelmingly large), and you know that his flannel is hiding taut pecs just below its buttons. His hair is a little long, but it suits him (it’s also nicer than most girls’ hair). But your favorite feature is his hands; you can tell they know how to do real, rough work but can still be gentle enough to comfort. Oh, and Jared also has dimples when he laughs, dimples that dig in to his cheeks as he howls out the most genuine laugh the universe has ever heard; no one can resist these dimples.

You have a mere school-girl’s crush on Jared, but you’re not stupid about it (at least not yet). Jared is married and his wife is beautiful and he has a little boy and their family gives you hope, because they seem to be the perfect little family; it gives you hope that you can achieve at having perfect little family, despite the fact that your parents couldn’t.

So when Jared says he likes your taste in music, you blush, but you try not to think too much into it because he’s married and ten years older, but most importantly, married. And when Jared teases you about how short you are, you respond with a quip regarding his gargantuan stature (he has to be at least 6’3”). “Very funny, but at least I couldn’t be mistaken for a munchkin.” “Whatever, Jolly Green.” But you don’t flirt, per say, because he is married. And when he watches you pour drinks, you push any of those outrageous thoughts out of your head because, he’s married. It’s just a coincidence that he’s looking at you. And when he wipes down the bar or makes his drinks or hands a customer food, you watch his hands, but not for too long, because, for God’s sake, he’s fucking married, Jenna. And when you notice one night that Jared isn’t wearing his ring and seems to be out of sorts, you still don’t give in to your thoughts and you still don’t flirt with him and you still don’t watch his hands for too long because he is still fucking married. Despite his naked ring finger on his left hand, he is still married, no matter what is happening between them, they are still very much married.

**

You’re helping Jared clean up and close down shop that night when he offers you a drink. “Come on, kid, knock one back with me?”

You hesitate; very unprofessional to “knock one back” with your very much older and very much married boss (if you were a straight young man, this wouldn’t be as inappropriate, but you are a straight young woman, and you have a school-girl’s crush on your gorgeous boss).

But Jared looks exhausted and looks like he needs someone to talk to and it pains you to see the emotion in his eyes. So you decide to humor him. You sit at the bar while he plays bartender across from you.

“So, tell me,” you start. “What’s the matter?”

“Who says anything’s the matter?” he responds, throwing back a shot of something strong.

“You.” You take your shot, which you discover is of whiskey. It burns a little, but you try to pretend it doesn’t. Jared still hasn’t said anything, but has poured you another shot. “I can see it in your face,” you say, when the silence has lasted too long.

Jared stares longingly at his naked finger, then rubs the spot where the ring should be. You discover you love to watch his hands even when they’re sad.

“You know, people change… Things change, people change. That saying, that ‘life doesn’t stop for anyone’ is the most painfully true thing.”

You and Jared drink and he tells you all about how he was going to be a lawyer, was even halfway through law school, but he got his then girlfriend (now wife) pregnant, and law school was no longer a priority. They had the baby and got married not too much later, and everything was great, because he thought he might ask her to marry him anyway; things just happened a little ass-backwards.

Everything was great until a few years ago when they started to argue about different things regarding their son, things they just couldn’t seem to agree on. And they argued about whether or not to move, and they argued about whether or not Jared should try to go back to school and become that lawyer, and about how her parents never liked him because they didn’t like the life he had before he went to college, and she always wanted to know about his family but he would never talk about them, and, of course, they argued about money. Jared and his wife seemed to have had one too many fights at this point; this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Jared still hasn’t decided whether or not he’s going to go home at all tonight.

“You shouldn’t drive,” you slur out.

“You shouldn’t drive either!” he also slurs out.

You both shouldn’t drive because you’re both a drunk.

“I’ll call a cab. We can share.”

“Ok, but not yet,” he smiles at you.

This is the part where Jared tells you that he likes watching you make the drinks sometimes, and he says how cute it is that you have to stand on your tip toes to get certain things off the shelves behind you. He likes the way you smile at every customer, no matter how much of an ass they are. He admits, it’s mainly because he likes your smile; it’s full of life.

This makes you blush and you look down at the empty shot glass in front of you. You’re so flattered by what he says that you kind of forget (or probably just don’t care) that he is, in fact, for the love of GOD, still married. Plus, they say alcohol gets rid of inhibitions. So when Jared reaches across the bar and tilts your chin up towards his face and leans across the bar, you close your eyes and meet him in the middle.

His influence is stronger than any spirit that has ever past your lips and you drink him in like your life depends on it.

You pull away, dazed. Did that really just happen? Jared, eyes still closed, seems to still be taking in the moment. He opens them. He’s conflicted. He wants more but knows he shouldn’t and you know he shouldn’t. But when he finally decides that he wants you, you let him have you. You lean further over the bar, lips locked on his, until a point when you’re crawling over it to get to him. He helps you across and sets you down in front of him. It must be an absurd site, you on your tip toes and him crouching to get to your level, but neither of you seem to care in that moment how you look, because all that matters is how you feel.

You both smell and taste of whiskey, but its ok, you like it. His callused hands are rough against the skin under your shirt, but his gentle touch gives you goose bumps and you shiver as he pulls your shirt over your head. You follow suit and begin to unbutton his flannel and tear it from his torso. You stop kissing for a moment to take in the site of him shirtless. He looks as though he was made by the Gods themselves; no one’s body is quite that perfect. Yet there it stands in front of you.

Jared touches you in all the right places, and puts his lips on all the right spots, and you try to reciprocate but you don’t think you’re making him feel anywhere near as good as you feel. That is, until you put your hands into his pants and he lets out a soft moan. The noise makes you shiver.
Things move faster after that. Gentle hands become rougher, kissing gets wetter, and you’re both losing your pants. It isn’t long until he’s inside you and your thrusting your hips and it seems like neither of you can breathe.

And when it’s over, it’s over. After a moment, he tells you that you should get dressed, followed by, “You should probably go, too.”

You step outside around 430am and the warm, damp July air hits your face. It smells like it’s about to rain, your favorite smell, but you can’t bring yourself to enjoy it. You roll into a cab and the driver takes in your smeared make-up and glassy eyes and judges you. You simply stare out the window, wondering if all of that really happened. Did you really just fuck your married boss, Jenna? Your thirty-year-old married boss had his dick inside of you, Jenna. And that is not ok.

So you go home and you cry because it doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right. And you cry when you wake up later, after you’ve sobered up a little, because you realize that Jared only fucked you because just because he wanted to feel young again; you are young and full of life, and he is not, and the closest he can get to being young and full of life is by putting his dick into someone who is. You cry because you know that he’s going to patch things up with his wife and they’re going to be ok, at least for a while, and you’re the girl who fucked her married boss.

**

Work interactions become awkward. He doesn’t tease you anymore. He doesn’t watch you anymore. You don’t steal fries anymore. All interactions are strictly business. Other workers notice and they ask, but you just say you got in a fight the night you stayed to help him close up.
A month later, you interact a little more, but it’s still nothing like it used to be. And it never will be again because you have to tell your married boss that you’re carrying a fetus inside you that is exactly half his.

You’ve contemplated not telling him, just getting it taken care of and never saying anything to anyone, but you know it isn’t right. Not only would the fact that you are a mistress weigh on your mind, but so would the fact that you aborted the baby without the father’s knowledge.
You haven’t helped Jared close since last month when everything happened. You linger after everyone’s left, like last time, except instead of welcoming you, he says, “It’s alright, Jenna, you can go.”

“I actually wanted to talk to you.”

He looks up at you, ashamed. “We probably shouldn’t.”

It hurts. You don’t know why, you knew as soon as it was over that it was over and that it would never mean anything, but it still hurts. It’s as if you don’t matter. Nothing you have to say matters.

But you know it does, so you don’t leave. You watch the hands that you still (secretly, heartbreakingly) love to watch as they move an old stained rag in a circular motion on the bar.

He looks up and sighs after you don’t leave for some time. “Jenna. You have to know that last month… It was a mistake. And we shouldn’t be talking to each other.”

The gleam of his ring catches your eye. He put it on again the next day, like you knew he would.

“I know, but I thought you should know…” the words get caught in your throat. You try to swallow them down and start over, but it feels like bile is rising in your throat.

“Jenna…?” You can see Jared’s mind reeling. It’s probably crossed his mind what you could be about to say, but he doesn’t dare ask aloud. He waits for you to tell him.

“Jared, I’m pregnant,” you finally manage. Your voice shakes like your knees. You nervously wring your hands together as you wait for his reply.

He’s speechless and sad. The look on his face kills you. His eyes convey apologies to you. It takes everything in you not to cry. But everything is not enough and tears begin to brim your eyes.

“I’m sorry, Jared,” you shake out as the tears begin to fall. He nods, also with wet eyes. He looks down and sniffles. He’s silent for a moment.

He finally looks up and asks what you’re going to do and you tell him you’ve got enough money saved and that you’re going to the clinic. He nods, understanding, but also visibly hurt. “I can’t keep it, you know that. The other workers aren’t dumb. Neither is your wife. All she’d have to do is realize that I had a baby 9 months after you didn’t come home one night and she would know. I don’t want this to…” Your voice trails off, not quite knowing what your trying to say or how to word it.

But Jared understands. “No, I know, I know. It’s just… Not easy to hear.”

“I know.”

**

You eventually stop working at the bar. You eventually meet other men. Some you get into relationships with, others you casually fuck sometimes, others are a one time only deal. Sometimes, they smell of whiskey. And they are your favorite. Because they evoke such an emotion in you that you can’t fully describe. They hit you heavy with nostalgia; the memory of that summer is not a fond one, but it’s an important one, it’s one that you hold close to you anyway. Yes, the ones who smell of whiskey are your favorite. But they don’t compare to Jared or that summer of regret. Nothing ever makes you feel that much anymore. You don’t think anything ever will.