He Traded My Forever for a One-Night Crush

The seventeenth birthday Reuben Vance spent with me, we spent at a bar, watching a game.

Before kickoff, he held the engagement ring up in front of me.

"If Team A wins, we'll get married."

I froze, staring at him, not quite believing it.

The whistle blew.

He turned away, didn't wait for my answer, didn't look at me again.

By the end of the first half, Team A was ahead.

Fiona Fox, the waitress standing beside Reuben, came over to me.

Red jersey, short little shorts, a cold beer dangling from her hand that she held out to me.

"Let's make a bet too. If Team B comes back in the second half, you hand your boyfriend over to me!"

"Fiona. Stop messing around." Reuben cut her off.

The steady, even-tempered man who never wavered had a tremor in his voice when he said her name.

Fiona took a hard swig of the beer, her eyes going red.

"You're really going to marry her? Then what about us?"

Silence.

The two of them looked at each other like no one else was in the room.

"Reuben."

I said his name. He heard it. He wanted to look away and couldn't make himself do it.

I sat there like an outsider, watching this scene I already knew by heart.

That same look, passing between them. The first time was seven days ago.

They'd known each other for seven days.

But in that moment, I understood.

My seventeen years had lost to those seven days.

…

A customer at the next table waved an empty bottle and shouted at Fiona.

"Hey, waitress, quit flirting with your boyfriend and bring me a bottle!"

Fiona didn't hear him.

In the blurred light, she and Reuben only had eyes for each other.

Every other sound had faded into the background.

I sat quietly in the shadows, my gaze going blank for a second, and still I saw it clearly: in Reuben's eyes, a tenderness churning that I had never once seen.

"Waitress! The drink! You hear me?" The man at the next table shoved his chair back, impatient, and roared, "Flirting on the clock. You want me to file a complaint with your boss?"

The shout snapped Fiona out of it, and she frowned.

She pushed up her sleeve and started toward him, ready to have it out, careless and loud.

Reuben caught her hand at once, grabbed the unopened bottle off our table, and carried it over to the next table himself.

"Your drinks are on me. Don't call her over again tonight."

The man slapped the table, then caught sight of the seventy-thousand-dollar Hennessy Richard set in front of him, and the curse already on his lips went straight back down his throat.

Fiona turned around, pouting, not satisfied.

"That bottle's so expensive. Why give it to a guy like that?"

Reuben smiled at her, indulgent, his voice gentle.

"For you, it's nothing."

I looked at that bottle, quiet.

A few days ago it had been sitting in the most prominent spot in the house.

The vintage was the exact year I was born. Production had been small that year, which made it especially hard to come by.

Reuben knew what I liked. He'd brought home that hard-won bottle and set it down.

"Haven't you always wanted to try this Richard? I got it specially for your birthday."

Today was my birthday. He'd brought the bottle along, just like he'd said. And then, for Fiona, he gave it away without a second thought.

"You gave that to me." Even as I said it, my eyes stayed on the bottle.

Reuben lit a cigarette, irritated, his voice flat.

"It's just a bottle. Can't you drink a little less?"

I turned my eyes back to him.

I used to never touch a drop. It was only from years of helping Reuben entertain clients, tasting day after day, that I'd slowly gotten used to it.

Unlike Reuben, whose tastes ran wide, I only ever drank Hennessy. Loyal. Stubborn.

The game whistle blew, and he turned back toward the screen.

"Just watch the game. As long as Team A wins, you're Mrs. Vance. Why fuss over one bottle?"