Stubborn Love.

I was late. My leather boots hurriedly padded down the stairs as I gathered my dark hair into a messy ponytail. I pushed past the swinging doors of the bar’s kitchen and ran past Dawson, who was seated at the counter, coffee and newspaper in hand.

“Aren’t you supposed to be…?”

“You didn’t wake me up.” I snapped, rushing past him.

He shrugged, bringing his coffee up to his lips. “I thought Robin already did.”

“She’s with her mom today. They’re shopping downtown for the wedding!” I yelled, turning the corner into the stock room and scanning the floor for my car keys.

“Oops.” He said, standing confused and half- asleep in the hallway. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“My keys.” I muttered, “Have you seen my keys? I must have dropped them here last night.”

“Haven’t seen them. Why would they be in the stock room anyway?”

I groaned, crouching to look under the stack of shelves. “Are you going to play twenty questions or help me find my shit?”

“I’m out of coffee,” he stated, pouting at his empty mug. “Maybe your keys are by the coffee maker, I’ll go check!”

“You’re an asshole.” I snapped, crawling to the other end of the room and scanning under another set of shelves. My fingers spread from one end of the room to the other, feeling every ridge in the hardwood as I searched for my coveted ring of keys. Finally, wedged between two cases of tequila on the floor, my middle finger brushed against the cold, jagged metal that was my keys. I let out a sigh of relief as I pushed the case aside and grabbed hold of the jingling, magnetic collage of keychains.

I stood, brushing the dust off my jeans and spun around to leave. My eyes came face to face with the plaque, hanging perfectly straight on the wall beside the door. I breathed deeply, the keys in my hand suddenly becoming irrelevant as my eyes scanned the familiar face nailed perfectly to the wall. I remember the effort it required for me to get the plaque just right, parallel to the door frame and approximately thirty-six inches below the ceiling at eye-level. Dawson had to move it several times because he couldn’t stand the response it brought when a customer asked me about him, what rank and section he was in, how long he was over “there”, praising me for his sacrifice for our country. His orbs stared directly into my own in a painfully familiar way. Although the official hat brimmed his face slightly, his gaze was still as effective as ever. A pang of nostalgia hit me square in the chest and the room became smaller, making it suddenly harder to breathe. My fingertips reached up to the plaque, tracing over the embossed letters of our shared last name. I licked over my suddenly dry lips, my vision clouded with moisture as my other hand reached up to tuck strands of hair behind my ear. It’s been 5 years, but I still couldn’t shake the feeling of his absence.

The noise of someone clearing their throat beside me ended the silence. I jumped, my hands instinctively moving to wipe the tears from my face.

“I’m sorry.” A familiar voice spoke, a solemn tinge in their words. “I’m just…I was looking for Dawson.”

I turned, my expression contorting into one of confusion as my eyes landed on the man from the night before, the one with the motorcycle helmet. “He should be in the kitchen.” I spoke, my voice sounding slightly raspy.

He didn’t move, he just stood there, his eyes locked on my face. His expression was intense, like he was struggling as to whether or not he should say something. I took the opportunity to take in his appearance. He looked the same as the night before, except sober and with less wrinkled clothing.

“He looks like you.” He said suddenly, nodding as if to prove his accuracy.

No one ever mentioned our similarities, figuring it was respectful not to form the connection between me and the soldier on the wall. I didn’t speak, but merely stared at him with a blank expression.

“It’s in the eyes,” he continued, his eyes shifting between me and the photo. “You both have these wide, chocolate eyes. And in the mouth, too. You both have this pouty lower lip, and it’s subtle; but it probably takes close cross-referencing to notice it. He’s your brother, isn’t he?”

“Don’t talk about him.” My voice was harsh, biting. I realized that my fists were clenched at my sides, my keys creating indentations on my palm.

He was quiet, analyzing my face for a few moments before opening his mouth to speak, surprising me again with his choice of words. “It gets better.” He said in finality, his jaw set in a certain way that expressed rigidness and accuracy, like his words were intricately chosen and should have made sense. But it didn’t, because even after he backed away and sauntered into the kitchen, a million thoughts crossed my mind. What was “it”? And how does it get better? More importantly, how was he so sure?

---

“Arizona, will you look at that? Betty Hansen has gotten herself a new flavor of the week just a few days after she had that incident with Jeff from room 204. What a hussy, that woman.”

“Grandma!” I scolded, biting back laughter. “Your gossiping mouth is going to get yourself into serious trouble, and I won’t be here to talk you out of it.”

“Oh, please. The only thing you’ll be doing when that day comes is holding my jewelry while I defend my title.” She let out a laugh, leaning back into her lawn chair, “And will you stop already with that ‘Grandma’ business.”

I shook my head, taking a sip of the coffee in front of me. “For the last time, I am not calling you Irene. That is just weird.”

“No, Arizona. Weird is coming to visit me for nearly 3 years now and never bringing along one of your boyfriends.” She leaned forward, looking me in the eye. “Why do you hate me? I am a dying woman.”

“You are not dying,” I rolled my eyes. “It’s a retirement home for God’s sake. You play in a bowling league every Wednesday. And my love life is very delicate right now.”

“Oh, Arizona. Don’t lie to me. Don’t lie to dear Irene.” She narrowed her eyes, clucking her tongue in disapproval. “Did I mention that I am a dying woman?”

“On the contrary, Irene.” A voice spoke from behind me. I spun around and saw a tall, brunette woman a few years older than me, sporting mint-green scrubs. “You are not dying. And I would know, because I read your chart every two days. Death might as well be Timbuktu for you.”

“Dammit, Sloan.” My grandma shook her head, “I am trying to guilt my granddaughter into sharing even an ounce of her personal life. You are ruining it for me, just like you’re ruining my oncoming death.”

“I can assure you, Irene. You are not dying. Not today at least.” The woman turned to face me, her hand extended. I noticed the tattooed sleeve on her arm and silently admired how badass she was for a doctor. “Hi, I’m Dr. Sloan Mercado. I’m the doctor in charge of your grandmother’s health care.”

“Arizona.” I smiled, shaking her hand.

“Will you two stop referring to me as grandma like I’m not sitting right here.”

Dr. Mercado pulled her dark red lips into a tight line, holding back her laughter. “I’m just going to check your blood pressure, Irene. If that’s okay with you.”

“Why not?” My grandma threw her hands into the air in surrender. “If I’m dying, you might as well be sure.”

“And I’m sure you’ve been staying away from whiskey, like I’ve been telling you to.” Dr. Mercado questioned, wrapping a blood pressure meter around my grandmother’s arm.

“Sloan, you can’t get mad at me for living my life. Look at Arizona over here for instance.” My grandma gestured toward me, “She lives above a bar, works at a bar, but wouldn’t drink the stuff if it were the last cup of drinkable substance on earth.”

“You live at a bar?” Dr. Mercado raised her eyebrows at me, wrapping her stethoscope back around her shoulders.

I nodded, “Yeah, the one on Valley and Campus. My friend Dawson Hemmings is the owner.”

“Oh, yeah? I know exactly where that is. I used to party with Dawson a few years back. I haven’t seen him around lately though. How’s he doing?”

“Engaged.” I said.

A look of astonishment crossed her face, “No kidding.”

“Yeah, they’re cute together in a kind of sickening, “I can’t even be around you guys without barfing” sort of way. But they’re good for each other.”

“That’s good to hear,” she nodded, sending me an assuring smile. “Okay, Irene. Everything looks good. I still want you to stay away from the Whiskey, is there any chance you’ll listen to me this time?”

“Slim to none,” my grandma nodded stubbornly.

“Can’t say I didn’t try.” Dr. Mercado joked before turning her attention to me. “Listen, my friend’s band is hosting a barbeque tomorrow and I was wondering if maybe you and Dawson could swing by and tend the bar for a few hours? I tried doing it last time and well…all I really know how to mix is rum and coke.” She laughed.

“I’ll talk to Dawson about it,” I nodded.

Her dark lips turned up into a smile, “Thanks. Dawson should still have my number so tell him to let me know what you guys decide. It’ll be fun.”

She spun around and disappeared through a nearby sliding door. I sat back down in my seat and turned to my grandma, who’s lips were pursed in disdain.

“What is it now?” I rolled my eyes.

“My doctor is giving you free alcohol. If you do not have a shot of whiskey for me at this barbeque, so help me I will turn over in my grave.”

---

“Which house is it?”

“Babe, I’m guessing it’s the one at with all of the cars in the driveway and strobe lights going out the front door.” Robin mumbled from the passenger seat.

Dawson’s lips pulled into a frown, “Well I feel stupid.”

“No, it could have happened to anyone.” Robin assured him, rubbing his shoulder.

I let out a laugh, “No. You’re just stupid, Dawson.”

“Zo. Do you want to walk home?” He raised his eyebrows, eyeing me through the rearview mirror.

“Clam your tots.” I nodded, pushing myself out of the car once he parked. “I promise to stop pointing out your stupidity for the rest of the night. Happy? Besides, I’m the designated driver, if anything, you’d be the one walking home.”

He was quiet beside me as we made our way through the gates leading to the backyard, “Now I feel stupid again. Thanks, Zo.”

My head fell back in laughter, which was now muffled by the music blaring from nearby speakers. Crowds of people were distributed all throughout the wide expanse of the backyard. The house was a mansion and the backyard took up three times the square feet of the house itself. The yard was located on a hillside which overlooked the city below and the image was so stunning I suddenly found myself questioning the value of my shitty view of the bar’s dumpster from my bedroom window.

“Dawson! Arizona!” We turned and found a half-drunk Dr. Mercado slurring toward us with a beer in hand. “I’m glad you guys are here!”

“Dr. Mercado holding a beer.” I smiled, becoming accustomed to the contrast of her medical scrubs attire as compared to her jeans and crop top, making her look even more badass.

“Arizona, I’m going to have to ask you to call me Sloan. Only because if I hear anyone under 60 call me Dr. Mercado, I’ll punch them in the throat.” She pointed a finger at me, a giggle escaping her lips. She turned and her eyes widened upon seeing Dawson. “Dawson, long time no see, buddy.”

Dawson clucked his tongue from beside me, a smile spreading across his face, “Same old Sloan, still drinking Heineken? The shit beer.”

“Shut your fucking mouth. This shit is great.” She gleamed, taking a swig of her beer.

Dawson laughed, “Meet my fiancé, Robin.”

“Robin!” Sloan pulled Robin’s petite frame into a bear hug, “Congratulations on getting Dawson over here to tie the knot. You must be very good for him. Arizona tells me you’re good for him.”

“I’d sure like to think so.” Robin blushed, stumbling back slightly as Sloan released her.

Sloan’s eyes widened in realization, as if she just came up with the best idea. “You guys should come see the bar. It’s the best thing ever. Follow me.” She spun around and shook her hips to the music as she weaved her way through the crowd, stopping every once in a while to grab someone and shout a quick hello.

“Was she always so…?” I trailed, looking at Dawson.

He nodded, “As long as I’ve known her. But she gets her shit done, which is what made it all okay in college.”

“Here it is!” Sloan waved her hands in a ‘ta-da’ motion as we approached the bar. And I had to admit, it was the best thing ever. It was on a slightly elevated platform in the middle of a large crowd. The counters and tabletops were highlighted with fluorescent, purple lighting, making it easily noticeable from across the yard. And the inventory had every type of alcohol I’d ever known and more. “You guys don’t have to work that much, just stop when you feel like it. Once the band gets up there, people will just start to grab beers or mix their own drinks anyway. Now, I gotta go. I’ll catch up with you guys later okay?”

But she didn’t even give us time to respond, she had disappeared into the crowd before any of us knew she was gone. I threw my hair up into a messy ponytail and hoisted myself up onto the platform, followed by Robin. I scanned the crowd behind her, looking for any sight of Dawson.

“Where’d he go?” I mouthed, pulling out stacks of cups.

“Bathroom,” she mouthed, starting to pour shots for people that were asking for them.

So we continued like that for quite a while, Robin taking orders and me mixing drinks while Dawson stood MIA in the crowd. After about an hour, when the band was walking onto the stage, Dawson hopped onto the platform and nudged me out of the way. “Go!” he said.

I furrowed my eyebrows in confusion. “What? Where have you been?”

“I got lost,” he said, starting to mix a few drinks. I could tell he was lying. I scrutinized his face, but he nudged me again. “Go have fun, Robin and I will finish up here. Take a break or something.”

I rolled my eyes before hopping off the platform and weaving my way through the crowd and into the house. I made a mental note to grill him later about what he was really doing. There were crowds of people in the kitchen and living room playing beer pong or fishing through coolers of beer. I made my way down a hallway, searching for a bathroom. I didn’t have to pee, but I was pretty sure I looked like crap because that’s what happens when I rush to pour drinks for sweaty people over an hour’s time. My hand wrapped around one of the doors where I was pretty sure I could hear water running. I opened the door and immediately saw that some guy was in there, sitting on the sink with the shower running a few feet away from him.

“Oh, sorry I didn’t know if anyone was in here.” I muttered before moving to close the door.

“No, it’s okay.” He smiled, pulling a cigarette up to his lips and taking a drag. “Come in.”

I complied, shutting the door behind me and took a seat next to him on the granite countertop. “I’m Neil,” he said.

I nodded, watching as he took another drag. “Arizona.”

“That’s a cool name. Not at all stripper-like.”

“Thanks.” I said, my lips curving into a smile at the absurdity of his statement. “Can I…?” I eyed his cigarette, longing for just one drag to keep me sane.

“Oh, I can do better than that, sweetheart.” He smirked, pulling the carton out of his back pocket and handing me one of my own. I placed it into my mouth and struck a match, lighting the end of the stick. I waited a few seconds and inhaled until the smoke hit the back of my throat before breathing out slowly. I didn’t realize how long it had been since I lit my own cigarette. It had been two days and the feeling was long overdue.

“The smoke travels with the steam,” he explained, referring to the shower. “I read it somewhere.”

I nodded, taking another drag. “Why don’t you just smoke outside?”

“Way too many people. God forbid one of them try to bum a cig.” He laughed, pulling the half-burnt stub up to his lips.

“You gave me one.” I pointed out, tapping the ashes away in the sink.

He shrugged, “I liked your name.” Neil brought the remaining stub up to his lips and threw it into the toilet, flushing its contents down the drain. He shuffled past me and leaned down to wash his hands at the sink, slapping his damp hands onto his face to wake himself up. “Excuse me, but I need to get out there now. It was nice meeting you, Arizona. Enjoy your smoke.”

“Likewise,” I mused, taking another drag and watching as he exited the bathroom and disappeared down the hallway. I sat like that in silence for a few minutes, listening to the muffling of echoed voices as the band took stage for sound check. After a while, music started to play and the crowd began to cheer. I finished up my smoke and threw my stub into the toilet, flushing its contents. I fixed myself in the mirror and washed my hands before making my descent back to the outdoors, where the band was well into the middle of their set. I made my way back to the platform and saw that Robin and Dawson were nowhere to be found. I climbed onto the platform and took a seat on the table, relishing in the fact that I was able to see over the crowds heads and have a direct line of sight to the stage. I watched the lead guitarist jump around on stage and belt into the microphone, his voice slightly familiar and quite melodious with a tinge of an unidentifiable accent. After a few songs, I found myself really enjoying their music. It was a mix between Reggae and Rock, a tone I wasn’t familiar with but automatically loved. After their set was over, Sloan came onto stage and thanked everyone for coming.

“Gerardo!” she said, turning toward the guitarist and flagging him over to the microphone. He wiped his sweaty face with the bottom of his white tee, exposing the bottom of his torso and earning a few female cheers from the crowd. “Say a few words to the crowd before you take off. Don’t be an asshole.”

He leaned forward, his mouth in close proximity with the microphone once again. “Thank you guys for coming out and cheering. I know a good number of you are cheering because your drunk out of your mind. But thanks.”

And it hit me. I knew that voice; the deep, Irish accent. It was the voice of the guy from the stock room, with the red motorcycle helmet. He was the singer. I didn’t recognize him from such far a distance, but based on that voice, I was certain it was him.

Gerardo turned to make his way off stage, another guy, the drummer, following behind him. “Neil!” Sloan called into the microphone, “Neil. Get the fuck back here.”

I recognized the name, it was the guy from the bathroom. He spun around and yelled something incomprehensible before shaking from laughter and giving Gerardo a high five before they turned to run off the stage together. Sloan threw her head back in laughter before muttering a few cuss words under her breath.

“Alright, they’re assholes. I’m going to have them start the music back up now.” She slurred into the mic, sending everyone a wave before making her way off stage.

I hopped down off the countertop and poured myself water into one of the cups, chugging the glass in a matter of seconds. Dawson and Robin emerged from the crowd, beers in hand, and approached the platform. They were laughing and slurring their words like one of the drunken couples I see leave bars all the time.

“You guys ready to go?” I called to them.

Dawson laughed, tossing his keys to me. “We’ll just call a cab. Go on back if you want. We’re gonna stick around.”

“Arizona!” Robin stumbled toward me, throwing her arms around my shoulders “Arizona, you’re so great. I love you so much.”

I scoffed, pulling her arms off of me. “I love you too, Robin. Just don’t breathe in my face. You reek of beer.”

“Her and everybody else here!” Dawson yelled, throwing his head back in laughter. “We’ll see you later, Zo.” They waved before disappearing back into the crowd.

I let out a puff of air and hopped off the platform, making my way out the gates of the backyard and toward the car. I was just turning off the driveway when I heard an engine rev, but it wasn’t a car engine. It was different, louder, more booming. I instinctively jumped when a motorbike screeched to a halt next to me, sending my entire body flying back onto the sidewalk out of instint. I took a moment to catch my breath, my hand flying up to my chest to calm my rapidly beating heart. My eyes traveled to the rider, who was now setting up the kickstand beside me. An irritated groan left my lips as my gaze landed the red motorcycle helmet that nearly killed me, twice.