Nathan "Drinkin' and Dreamin'"

It had sounded completely normal when Nathan texted earlier.

Nathan: Hey. Survived day one.

Nathan: I'm grabbing a beer before I head back to the hotel. You around?

Nathan: I'm at Mulligan's

You know the place. It's 10 minutes away.

After years of living four or five hours apart, that still feels strange.

When you push through the bar door, Nathan is easy to spot. He's alone at the counter in a dark work shirt, tan work pants, and boots, one hand loosely wrapped around a glass.

There are a few empties nearby.

He looks up.

Recognition hits, and his entire face brightens.

Nathan: "There you fucking are."

He points toward the stool beside him.

Nathan, teasingly: "Sit down. You're late."

You glance at the time.

Nathan: "Don't check."

His mouth twitches.

Nathan, amused: "You'll ruin my argument."

Oh.

He's drunk.

Not stumbling. Not slurring badly. His eyes are focused and his movements are controlled.

But you've known Nathan for nearly twenty years.

His shoulders are too loose. His cheeks are flushed. And the normally reserved man is smiling far too easily.

Once you sit down, the years disappear surprisingly fast.

Nathan complains about the project, tells you one of his apprentices spent twenty minutes looking for a tool hanging from his own belt, and drags up stories neither of you have mentioned since high school.

Nathan: "You remember Tyler Morrison?"

He points at you with his glass.

Nathan: "The guy with that fucking Honda Civic?"

You barely get the answer out before Nathan starts laughing.

Nathan, animatedly: "No, no—don't defend him. That thing had one functioning door and he still acted like he was driving a Ferrari."

He takes another drink, still grinning.

Nathan: "God, we were idiots."

For a while, Nathan feels seventeen again.

He laughs openly. Talks with his hands. Makes terrible impressions. Occasionally cracks himself up before you even react.

Then another drink arrives.

You look at it.

Nathan catches you.

Nathan: "Don't."

He stares at the glass for a second.

Nathan, sheepishly: "I'm aware this isn't exactly my finest display of responsible adulthood."

He takes a sip anyway.

Nathan: "First day was a fucking nightmare."

His eyes drift toward the empties.

Nathan: "Figured I earned one."

A beat.

Nathan, conceding: "Apparently I earned several."

Eventually, the conversation wanders home.

Emily.

Nathan's smile is immediate and genuine.

Nathan, fondly: "Em's good. Still convinced I'm gonna die of scurvy if she doesn't personally put a vegetable on my plate."

He chuckles and reaches for his phone.

Nathan: "She actually texted me earlier."

He unlocks the screen.

Emily: Please make sure you actually eat something tonight.

Emily: Beer is not dinner.

Emily: And yes, I know you're going to argue with me about that.

Nathan snorts.

Nathan: "See?"

He turns the screen toward you for half a second.

Nathan, amused: "Woman knows me too well."

He locks the phone again.

Nathan: "She told me to actually have fun out here, too."

He gestures vaguely around the bar.

Nathan: "Specifically instructed me not to spend every night sitting in the hotel like a miserable old bastard."

His grin returns.

Nathan, smugly: "So technically, this is me being a good husband."

The joke lands.

Then the smile fades a little.

Nathan looks down at his hand.

His thumb slowly turns the scratched wedding band around his finger.

You know that silence.

There's something behind it.

Nathan: "You ever..."

He stops.

His brow furrows.

Nathan: "Fuck."

He reaches for his drink, hesitates, then leaves it sitting there.

Nathan, dismissively: "Never mind."

You don't let him off that easily.

Nathan exhales through his nose.

Nathan: "You always were annoying as shit."

But there isn't much bite behind it.

He stares into the glass.

Nathan, quietly: "You know what's fucked up?"

His eyes lift to yours.

Nathan: "I was gonna give you the same bullshit answer I give everybody else."

He rubs a hand across his stubble.

Nathan: "Work's good. Emily's good. House is good."

His mouth twists.

Nathan, bitterly amused: "I'm good."

He lets out a short laugh.

Nathan: "Three beers ago, I probably would've gotten away with it, too."

His thumb brushes over his wedding ring again.

Then Nathan looks at you properly.

Not the foreman.

Not Emily's husband.

Just Nathan.

Nathan: "...You want the answer I usually give people?"

He leans back slightly, tired half-smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

Nathan, vulnerable: "Or you want the real one?"