Like Real People Do

5. Your Ghost

TW: Substance abuse (alcoholism)

And when you take your rest, my weight upon your breast. And should you close your eyes, I'll still materialize. Your ghost, oh your ghost. -The Decemberists

Wednesday, April 14th

A missed call from a number he had not saved in his phone lingered on the lock screen of Shane's phone. It shouldn't have been more than that, but he was painfully cognizant of the fact that this wasn't an ordinary missed call. After all the time he'd spent punching those numbers in before immediately hanging up, it was impossible not to know exactly where the phone call had come from. A missed call from Natalie, one of the last surviving artifacts from another life.

Call her back, you stupid piece of shit.

He stared at his phone for a long time, standing outside the doors of the bar before shoving it back into his pocket. She'd been gone, out of his life for nearly five years now, and left him with their daughter, an empty chest, and no way to pay the rent. That's how Shane ended up here, paying nickels and dimes to his Aunt Marnie for the room he rented. He had no one left to turn to, nowhere else to go. Natalie was always on his mind more than he would have liked. She was a permanent fixture at this point, but he could usually relegate her to the background with a few stiff drinks. Shane already existed with a baseline level of anxiety- Natalie was just a drop in the bucket. The painful stabs of her memory were blunted over time, but that fucking missed call sharpened the knife all over again and now she stood front and center.

If there was ever a night to drink, it was tonight. Shane feared that if he didn't do something to take the edge off that his anxiety might eat him alive. Not that he ever needed an excuse, but a missed call from his ex was as good as any. He got a good head start at home, but eventually his supply ran dry. It was his own fault for not stocking up, but the alternative wasn't the worst thing in the world.

The pub was empty except for Gus and Emily, the owner and his animated, blue-haired bartender. No surprises there, Shane thought bitterly to himself as he took his usual seat at the bar. No one else is miserable enough to be here at 6pm on a Wednesday. He gave Emily a curt nod and she slid a beer across the bar. She didn't even need to ask what he wanted; this exchange had become a ritual between the two of them.

"I saw you talking to Rhiannon the other night," she said with a playful smile and raised eyebrows. Shane paused, staring down into his beer with a vacant look on his face. He was already drunk when he walked in the door and barely even registered what she said.

"Who?" Shane took a sip of his beer and leaned over the counter. He knew damn well who she was talking about, but there was no more room in his mind for bullshit tonight. He could worry about Patrick Turner's perfect fucking granddaughter another time; right now he was consumed with nothing but Natalie.

"The new girl. She said you were mean to her." Emily's retort was sharp and almost caught him off guard.

"Oh." He swallowed hard and lifted the glass to his lips again. Small talk wasn't usually part of their nightly routine, and Shane was not interested in having it- least of all right at that moment. He could only drink to forget one problem at a time, and he didn't need the reminder of how many he had on deck. Even so, feeling the disappointment in her voice still stung a little bit. Though there was no one in town Shane really considered himself to be friends with, Emily was the closest thing he had. They shared a strange sort of bond forged over liquor soaked routines and late nights. She saw more of him than anyone else, but never breathed a bad word on his name. It was a quiet, shared understanding that Shane was thankful for every time she slid him another beer without another word. Sometimes, her energy exhausted him, but the spot of light she provided made the bar just a little bit less of a miserable place.