Alexis

Mallory's Sports Bar e Grill

Mallory's Sports Bar and Gril

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I got there first. Friday night at a sports bar: not an ideal location for the news I had to tell Conor.

I used my brain and put in a reservation for seven. I sat on the second floor. The first floor was a bar. Both had large televisions all over the walls. Both were filled with people. The second floor had live music. I forgot about that. It was giving me a headache. I loved live music, too, but I wasn't in the mood tonight.

The waiter asked me to order while I waited. I ordered water with lemon.

At 7:21, Conor walked up to me.

"Hey, babe," he greeted. I was mindlessly watching the Yankees play on the television, playing with the straw in my glass of iced water. I looked over when I heard his voice. He grinned at me and before I could process what he was doing, he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and pulled me to his side. His lips touched my forehead. He let me go after the awkward side-hug and sat across from me.

I sat straighter, not expecting that at all.

"You look so hot tonight," he commented and looked above my head. I internally scowled. I knew he was watching a game.

I did not look "hot" tonight, and if I did, it was unintentional. I was wearing black jeans and a black band t-shirt. I wore minimal jewelry. I did, however, take some time to do my face. I wasn't as secure as I used to be.

He glanced down at me for a moment and grinned. "How you been, babe?"

Glad to see he hasn't changed much. He was wearing a Celtics jersey. A baseball cap on inside. Bleh.

"Thought you weren't going to come for a moment. I was about to leave," I said as he watched the game behind me.

"Nah, I'm here," he said. We didn't get to talk much because the waiter came up. Conor ordered a beer, got IDed, and showed a fake ID. He also ordered an appetizer. I didn't. I didn't plan on staying. "Oh, some of my friends are gettin' here 'round eight. Is it okay if they join us? Just let me know, and I'll tell 'em no, babe."

Under the table, my hand made a fist. I had to tell myself to breathe. I couldn't punch him in public. I did not want anyone with us right now. I had very serious matters to discuss.

"I don't care," I sighed. "I'll leave around that time. I have work tomorrow." Half a fib. Not work, just an interview at White Castle. Same difference.

"Where do you work?" he asked, not looking at me.

"Doesn't matter," I avoided. "Look, Conor," I called and snapped my fingers in front of his face. "Can you focus for a fucking second? Jesus Christ."

He looked down at me and cocked a smile. "Missed that attitude. So feisty," he grinned.

I rolled my eyes. "Look, can you be serious for a second? I need to talk to you."

"Well, yeah, that's why I'm here," he said and turned his attention back to the television behind me. I took a good look at him, studying his features. Our daughter would've had a blend of ours. I wonder whose eyes? Whose nose? Whose toes? Fingers? I noticed something different about Conor: his nose was bent. I didn't remember that. It was crocked like Cameron Diaz's before her nose job. I liked Owen Wilson's nose. I'm pretty sure Wilson broke his nose, twice, I think. Did Conor break his nose?

"Hey," I called. "What happened to your face? Did you get hit with a puck or something?"

"Huh?" he asked but didn't look at me. "I wear a helmet during the games, babe. I didn't get hit."