There's a plane ticket to Australia resting on his nightstand while he rests his head on the bar. He came out with Mark, maybe to commiserate, maybe to celebrate, maybe to congratulate - he doesn't know anymore. He's nursing his seventh beer and trying to eradicate this burning pain in his chest, but he doesn't know if it came from the rejection or the fifth beer and it's one of those things that's impossible to cure unless you know the cause.

He lifts his head enough to stare at the green label on the bottle. He thinks that he did it all wrong. He didn't calculate it properly (that's the word he was looking for). He stormed in with a brilliant offense, but he forgot to build the defense just in case. But his just in case turned out to be the only case. He hadn't been counting on "I can't." Nobody counts on the "I can't's" in this world, he thinks.

He lifts his head higher and takes a sip of beer. It's like water slipping down his throat, going down easier than his confession came up. He should have swallowed the words, maybe saved them for the altar like in all the old romance movies. Only it was too bad that now he knew what sort of bullshit those movies were made of. He washes her away with another gulp of beer.

The bar is blurring around the edges a little and he's not sure if it's from the booze or if he's crying again. He orders another round and lays his palm flat on the bar, tries not to see her curls in the mahogany stain but it's all he's ever been able to see. When a new bottle is placed before him, he fishes into his pocket for another bill but a slender, feminine hand lays a five on the bar before he gets a chance. He looks down at his new benefactor.

Blonde, slim, pretty, not at all his type. But tonight it's okay, because it seems like lately everyone's going home with the wrong person.

He smiles as a thank you and she returns it gladly. She giggles when he slurs his name and he tries to find it adorable. He tries to be charming and gentlemanly but finds his hand already straying to her waist and he's leaning in a lot closer than is necessary to hear her, but she seems to like it so he doesn't stop. By her third line he doesn't even remember her name but she's giggling and he doesn't need anything more from her. She has another drink, something colored pink, and starts to whisper breathy promises in his ear. Everything she says is all wrong for him but still his hand is on her hip. Before he can order another beer or stare at the curls in the wood knots on the bar, his hand is in hers and she's leading him toward the door.

They get to her car in the parking lot and get in, but they don't end up in the front seat. She's muttering against his neck and he tries not to smell the smoke in her hair and he tries not to think about how this isn't how he pictured these few weeks going. Instead, he lifts her shirt over her head because she's practically begging him for it. He kisses the pale skin of her shoulder and won't allow himself to be disappointed by the absence of freckles. He'd always imagined that she would have tiny clusters of hidden freckles, waiting for him to find them.

He pushes her back gently, looks down into eyes that are the wrong color, swallows the lump in his throat.

"I can't."