My car slows to a stop as I pull into the parking lot at Royale, an out of the way bar on the south end of Orlando, housed in a low slung brick building that has seen much better days.  It doesn't feel like it's been ten years since this place was a hot spot for my husband and me, back when we were romantically poor, living hand to mouth, hanging out at the local bar to avoid turning on the heat in our criminally tiny apartment.

Years later, it seems like life has come full circle. I purposely make regular stop-ins to this bar, even though it's out of my way. It's like a security blanket, comforting and familiar, that serves good, strong drinks with staff that doesn't chat me up, trying to be my friend, get me drunk or depressed so I'll buy more booze. I can walk in, take a seat, order a drink and keep to myself.

What I need tonight is a good strong drink and to keep to myself. I was invited to hang out with my coworkers from Spectrum Insurance after a long, boring shift but they love this dippy little place called O'Charley's. They fancy themselves to be the Cheers of Orlando, where everybody knows your name. Mostly, they want to get into your business and be ‘bar buddies'. The last thing I need is a bar buddy.

I climb out of my car, my heels crunching through loose gravel and dirt. The glowing sign in the front window emits a buzz as I swing the door open and step into a dimly lit space that smells very faintly of stale beer. I'm craving the smoothness of whiskey or the crisp bite of tequila or a refreshing splash of vodka. Mostly I'm craving how the indulgence will mean I'll forget this day, this week, this month-maybe the past two years, if only for a while.

All I need is to coast. Just for a while.

My favorite seat, third stool on the right, beckons me to slide into it. It feels so much like coming home that it's scary. Tim, my favorite bartender is working tonight. He places a small, square napkin in front of me and leans onto the gleaming wood of the bar.

"Merry Christmas, though belated. What are we starting with tonight?"

Good question, I think. Do I want to ease my way into a stupor, or go right for the jugular and start downing shots?

Shots it is.

"Cranberry Kamikaze," I tell him, hanging my purse on the back of my chair. I'm settling in. "Make it a double."  

In moments, vodka, cranberry, lime and triple sec are set in front of me. As quickly as they appear, I toss them back, relishing the warmth of the alcohol and the sweetness of the fruit as it slides down my throat.

Ahhhhhhhh. "I needed that."

"Rough one?" Tim stacks the glasses, dumping them into the bin below the bar. A glass of water appears in their place. "I can always tell when you start with a double."

Tim doesn't press for details, and maybe that makes me want to open up. Or maybe the alcohol is already starting to affect me, because the stress of the last few days tumbles out of my mouth.

"He took my kids," I blurt. "To Montana. Can you believe that? To visit his..." I can't say the word without practically spitting it. "His wife's family. Like he cares about those people. He didn't even talk to me about it. He just bought the tickets and then called me told me he was taking them."

"Sucks," says Tim.

"Tell me about it. My family all went to Kentucky for Christmas. I had to work today, so I couldn't go. My Christmas feast was a turkey pot pie and half a bottle of Jameson."

He cringes. "I know, I know. I should drink half a bottle of white wine with turkey pot pie." I suck down more water while trying to decide on my next drink. "The thing is... I don't think having the kids for Christmas is all that important to him."

"Come on, Riss. He's their dad. It has to mean something to him."

I wag my head, then stop because the shots really are already working their magic. "Do you know what it's like to have to be nice to someone you hate? Like, someone you despise with every fiber of your being? But I did it. I very nicely asked to have the kids for Christmas this year, since he took an extra week this summer. All of a sudden they have plane tickets and he's taking my babies to Montana to ride horses on a ranch."

Tim nods, understanding. For the last four years, he's had to listen to me whine about my ex-husband, Graham Lowe. Tall, dark and handsome. Successful investment banker. The toast of Orlando's financial scene.

Cheater. Bastard. Manipulative motherfucker. Pure Asshole. For starters.

"And do you think he even had the kids call me to say Merry Christmas?" I pout, folding my arms across my chest. "I mean, it was nice to talk to them, but it was one in the morning, here. I was an afterthought."

 Four years ago, I walked in on Graham and his assistant mid coitus on top of his desk. I really thought people only did that shit in movies. Then again, Graham probably got the idea from a movie and thought it would be hot. He always wanted me to do some weird move he saw in porn.

It took two years to come to an agreement about alimony, child support, a parenting plan for our children and division of our shared assets. He got the better end of the deal-because he made the better end of the money. Now he uses our children against me, like a pawn in some twisted game in which the goal is to inflate his ego and show his power.

And to punish me, I suppose. For what? Insisting that he not fuck everything in a pair of stilettos?

A knot builds between my shoulder blades. I attempt to massage it out but my hands aren't nearly strong enough. The thought of him and her- whom he married the day after our divorce was final- and my children pretending to be one big happy family gives me a stress headache.

"Hey Tim... how about a vodka and Diet Coke?"

The front door to Royale bursts open, inviting a whip of cool air to wind around my bare legs. Out of the corner of my eye I watch a figure slip inside. The place is empty, and although he has his pick of any other seat in the house, he plants his ass in the one next to me. Most of his face is covered in barely controlled beard growth, but he has a head full of wavy, dark hair with patches of grey at the temples. I roll my eyes and prepare for the shit storm of small talk that comes with sitting at a bar-alone- on the day after Christmas.

Tim slides a napkin in front of his newest patron. "What can I start you with?"

"Just a lite beer for now."  His voice hits a spot on my spine, a tenor that's a combination of silk and grit with the slightest hint of not from around here.

I'm trying hard to pretend he's not really there. Despite sitting next to me, he's doing the same. Our drinks are served at the same time and we sit in silence, the only sounds coming from the low murmur of the TV over the bar and the crackle of leftover Christmas music from the overhead speakers.

"Hey, can you tune into the Redskins game?" Tim grabs the remote and points it at the TV, turning it from a droll TNT drama to a snowy football game. "Thanks. Let's see if the Skins got anything on the Eagles tonight."

I snort, then regret it since he takes it as an invitation to talk to me. "I know; it's kind of a long shot. Are you into football?"

"Nope," I answer, sipping my drink which is blessedly more vodka than Coke. "That matchup sounds like the Problematic Olympics."

He laughs a guffaw that seems familiar to me. If I wasn't a little fuzzy I could probably place it faster. "The what? What is the... what Olympics?"

"The Washington Racial Slurs versus the Philadelphia Dog Killers. The Problematic Olympics."

In my peripheral vision, I watch his head rear back and then dip forward. "Oh. You're talking about-yeah, okay. You're one of those."

"If by one of those, you mean one of those annoying women that that care about Native Americans and innocent animals, then yes, one of those."

"I'm not... I wasn't saying... I'm just trying to watch a game."

"You asked me a question and I answered it."

"After you felt the need to comment. I wasn't actually talking to you."

He picks up the bottle in front of him and takes a long, slow swig before setting it back down. Then he opens his mouth again.  "Hey...I didn't mean anything by the comment, by the way. I was just making conversation."

"I don't need your apology. Do you mind scooting over a couple of seats?" I nod to the empty chairs all around us. "There's plenty of room. We don't need to be quite so cozy."

"I wasn't apologizing. And to be honest, this is a better seat to see the TV. I'm from DC, originally. The Redskins are the home team. I was just trying to check in on the game."

I chuckle, slurping more courage and sass. I mean vodka. "You remind me of this guy I used to know a long time ago. He was deep into the Redskins because he was from DC. All he talked about was going home to see a Skins game, nonstop chatter if the Redskins were playing. Who cares?"

"We like our team, I guess."

"I guess. He was kind of a pretentious jerk. It's one of a few things I remember about him."

He laughs again. Where have I heard that laugh before? "Why's he gotta be a pretentious jerk?"

"He just was, okay? It was a long time ago. He's probably still a pretentious jerk."

"You know how you sound, right?"

"No, how do I sound?"

"Jilted. You sound like he didn't pay attention to you so he's a jerk."

"You mind keeping your armchair psychology to yourself?" I scoff and toss back a healthy swallow of my drink, then dip into my purse for my phone. I amuse myself with social media- Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, anything to get off this guy's radar.

"If you wouldn't mind not posting that I'm here, I'd appreciate it."

I pause, slowly turning my head to get my first good look at him. Or at least his profile. He's staring intently at the TV mounted above the bar.  "Seriously? I have no intention of mentioning some random guy at a bar."

At my comment, he turns his head in my direction and his eyes, full of incredulity, meet mine.

And in that instant, I know. I'd know those eyes anywhere.  I know why his laugh sounds familiar. I know why he sounds like that guy I knew from DC. He is that guy I knew from DC.

I also know why he asked me not to mention he was here.  He's famous... wildly recognizable. At least outside of Orlando.

"Holy shit. I know you."

He chuckles, but it's not a that was a funny joke chuckle. It's a yeah, right chuckle.

"No, I mean it. I know you. Or... I knew you. We both went to Dr. Phillips High School. You went there in between seasons of that Disney show."

His eyes, those eyes I remember from at least twenty years ago, that I'll potentially remember for the rest of my life, are a piercing blue. He looks different, especially with the thick beard that covers his face. He sounds different-a deeper voice that has lost a lot of the obvious northeast tang it used to have. He's certainly taller and... more built.

I guess I should expect that a person I haven't seen since high school would eventually grow up. I certainly had.

And as the memories of that year that he and I were in the same English class at Dr. Phillips High School roll through my mind, I'm simultaneously embarrassed and indignantly angry.

He looks me up and down, then shakes his head. "You don't ring any bells for me. What's your name?"

"Marissa Lowe. Well, back then it was Powell. I used to hang out with Robbie­- you know, the math geek that used to tutor half the football team. And that girl Kristen with the big thick glasses everyone picked on."

Recognition lights up his face and colors his high cheekbones. "Oh, the Nerd Herd?"

"It wasn't-"

I groan, clenching my teeth, trying to stem the tide of my emotions. I'm too vulnerable for this walk down memory lane. It feels like I'm back in high school again, being judged by this kid that thinks he's a bigshot because he's on some TV show. Back then, the Disney Channel was a premium add-on, like HBO or Showtime. I'd never even watched the show because my parents refused to pay extra for children's programming.

"Anyway. You probably remember this tall, lanky guy in your group of friends.  Kinda looked like you, a little. Dark hair, blue eyes, big nose. He played basketball. Graham Lowe?"

"Yeah." He nods, his eyes drifting to some spot just past me as his mind wanders backward. "I think I remember him, yeah. What about him?"

"I dated him. Well, I started dating him after you left Dr. Phillips. We got married and had two kids."

"Oh, no kidding? Congrats on that." He's actually quiet for a minute, his eyes on the game. I hope I'm going to get away with not having to explain why I'm not with Graham and our children.

"But you're here." He lifts an arm to gesture the empty bar, the sad Christmas music, the pitiful football game, the bartender flipping through receipts and pretending not to listen to our conversation.  "Alone. The day after Christmas. Gotta be a story there."  

I will myself to not blush crimson, using my cocktail straw to poke at the ice in my glass.  "We're divorced. Now that he's a rich investment banker, he prefers the company of women with porn star names."

"What...." He laughs. "What is a porn star name?" That laugh again. Now that I can place it, it makes me smile. It reminds me of younger days, simpler times. Before I knew my ex-husband was a piece of shit.

"Jenna. Like Jameson? Just sounds like a porn star name to me."

"Because it is a porn star's name. But I get what you mean. Like Candy. Or Misty."

"Exactly." I shake my glass of ice at Tim, my sign that I'm ready for another. He hops to it, replacing my empty with a full glass. "And against my wishes, he took our children to some barren tundra called Montana for Christmas."

"That sucks, man. I'm sorry. What are you having?"  When I tell him, he orders the same.  "So, you and Graham Lowe, huh?"  He murmurs, slurping a sip off the top of his drink.

"Why do you sound surprised?"

He shrugs a shoulder. "If I remember Graham right... and I remember you right..." He pauses. "I don't want you to take this as an insult-"

"Too late."

"I just mean... you kinda... you didn't look like this back then."

 I want to be offended, but he's right. I was short with not a single, discernible curve to be found. My shoulder length hair tended to puff up around my face and I held serious nerd tendencies. I would much rather sit in the library with a book than attend a sporting event.

That is, until I met Josh my sophomore year. I sat two seats behind and to the left of him in English and spent so many class hours staring at him that the teacher and I had to have a chat about paying attention.

I wanted his attention. And I tried to get it. I straightened my hair, tried to dress a little better, a little more trendy. Curiously, I just happened to be where his friends always hung out. But he never noticed me, and after only a year he was gone, back to taking classes on the set of the Mickey Mouse Club while the season filmed. After that year, he opted to go back to Maryland and go to school with his friends. He never came back to Dr. Phillips High School, though I heard he stayed friends with the kids from there.

Over that summer, my body finally caught up with the rest of the female population. I dropped some baby fat and grew an inch, which helped a lot.  I developed some womanly curves, let my hair grow long which eliminated the big puff of curls, instead creating waves that frame my face. I grew into my big, amber flecked eyes and my skin cleared. And unlike Josh, Graham took notice. We started dating, and I tried to get over that cute guy from DC who was probably going to make it big. At least that's what everyone was saying.

"Maybe I hit puberty and a growth spurt."

"Looks like you did."

It's true what they say about women, that we hit our stride in our mid-thirties. Despite my ex-husband's penchant and preference for younger, leggy (and flexible, for that matter) blondes, I garner my fair share of complimentary smiles when out in the wild, specifically when I am dressed like I am today-hip hugging pencil skirt, form fitting short sleeved cotton sweater with a v-neck that's almost cut too low, heels just high enough to show off my legs but low enough that I don't resemble a baby deer when I walk in them.

He nods appreciatively and I feel a burst of heat in the pit of my stomach and a reminiscent tightening in my chest. I think it's called attraction, something I haven't felt in so long I barely recognize it. I remember that I like it.

"So did you," I compliment, waving a hand toward him.

"It's just Father Time doing his thing, really."

He's trying to be modest but the red flannel button-up he's wearing over a white t-shirt stretches across his shoulders in a way that says he's solid. Not ripped, not even necessarily muscular, but firm. A long glance reveals well-formed pecs and taut abs, not a beer belly hanging over the band of worn, stylishly ripped jeans.

"Checkin' me out?" My eyes pop back up to his face. His expression tells me he's amused and not bothered by my extended look.

"Repaying the favor. You did the same thing to me ten minutes ago."

I suck down the rest of my drink and shake my glass at Tim. He gives me look and I know what it means. He wants me to slow down. "And a glass of water." Reluctantly, he begins to mix my new drink.  

"He watches out for you. That's the sign of a good bartender."

"It's the sign of a bartender that doesn't want to have to roll me out of here." Tim serves my drink and my water. To appease him, I down the water first.

"So, this is clearly not the happening spot on a Thursday night." We both take a look around. The bar has gained a whopping three more patrons-one person on a stool and a couple sitting at a table, perilously close together. It's an extremely slow night.

"Saturdays and Sundays are the hot nights around here. Thursdays? Not so much. The only reason I know it exists is because I used to live around the corner."

"From here?" His voice squeaks in surprise. "In this neighborhood?"

I nod, sipping my drink, more slowly this time. Tim sets out a bowl of peanuts and we both grab a handful. "Graham and I lived in a little one bedroom a block or so away from here. I went to Rollins, he went to UCF. It wasn't that bad. Kind of romantic, in a poor college student kind of way."

"Sure. It's one of those Lifetime movies in the making."

"Yeah. The Betty Broderick story. You know that lady that put her husband through law school, then he becomes this hot shot lawyer and decides he wants to trade in his wife for a younger model?"

"She shoots him right?"

"After she drove a truck through his front door. Shot him and his wife. In bed."

"That's... crazy." He laughs but I know he's wondering.

  "I'm not about to shoot my ex." I pop a peanut into my mouth. "At least, I don't think I am. But I put up with a lot of shit while he was building his career, only for him to bang the first thing that..."

I inhale a deep, cleansing breath and cut myself off. No whining to the high school friend slash famous person sitting next to you at the bar where you prefer to get sloshed because you know the bartender will make sure you get home in one piece.

"So why are you here? I mean, not here, but in Orlando? Don't you live in LA?"

"I've been in town for a while. This is home. My family lives here."

"And they make you so happy that you seek out dive bars and take over the TV and bother women?"

"Well..." He seems to blush, but he keeps talking. "You know that thing where you come home for the holidays and you really enjoy your time with your family but after a while there's too much togetherness? You know, too much of Aunt Judy asking why you're almost forty and not married and too much of your mom telling you to shave, for heaven's sake and too much of your brother and his happy marriage and cute kid reminding you of everything you don't have. I love them. I do... but... you know?"

"Yeah, I know that exact thing. It's Riss, you've been divorced two years now. It's time you got over it. Jenna's a nice girl, get along for the kids. And Rissy, my neighbor's sister's Aunt's son is a doctor. I mean, he's a Podiatrist, but he's an MD. He's only balding up top...stop being so picky!"

He laughs, loudly this time, nodding as I imitate my Great Aunt Shirley, who gives me the same speech every time I see her. "So you get me."

"I do. They love you but their love is exhausting. I can't breathe." I pause to peer at him, my head cocked slightly to the left. "You seem suffocated."

"Among other things."

"Other things like..." 

"Like frustrated. Burnt out. Tired." He smiles, tipping his head in my direction. "Don't think I don't know what you're doing. Trying to get under my skin, get me to talk. Tomorrow, all my secrets will be on the internet."

"After going through my divorce while all of Orlando watched me fall apart, then having to rebuild my life, I understand more than you know.  I'm not that kind of person."

He doesn't say anything and I don't push. Instead I elbow him and flash a smile. "I didn't even recognize you with that beard. Nice incognito mode."

"Thanks, I guess."

"So how did you end up here, specifically at Royale?"

"To be honest, I was trying to visit a buddy to watch this game. He must have fat fingered his address...I got lost. I saw the sign and the empty parking lot. I thought it would be a warm place to grab a drink and figure out where I am."

"Do you know where you are yet?"

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he empties his drink, throws back another handful of peanuts and glances at the score on the TV. The Eagles are beating the shit out of the Redskins. 

"Maybe I ended up where I needed to be," he says, finally.

I take a look around the bar, dark and dank, dotted sparsely with a few lonely souls.  I'd stopped in to drown my sorrows and feel sorry for myself because I couldn't spend Christmas with my children, but I feel like I've gotten what I came for and it's time to go.

"So, are you still going to visit your friend?"

He shrugs. "No point. The Skins can't come back from this beating. He's an Eagles fan, so it'd just be listening to him gloat all night. Plus I owe him fifty bucks now."

"Well, no pressure at all... but... I thought you might want to get out of here. I have vodka and soda at home. And I'm hungry." I nod toward the empty bowl between us. "Those peanuts aren't gonna cut it."