Fractured [SHAWN MENDES]

~4~

Shawn stepped out of the shower and grabbed one of the thick white towels off the hook. Standing on the bath mat, he toweled off his lean yet muscular body. He then went to the steamy mirror, swiped a hand across it, and stared at his reflection. He'd buzzed his hair again before showering, and seeing himself bald was always a little jarring at first. She'd loved his long hair which was why he shaved it off the day he'd been released on bail. The media jumped to the conclusion that he'd cracked up, sort of like Britney Spears had in 2007. He'd definitely snapped...why else would he have done what he did? It was a momentary thing, though. Even his lawyers said they couldn't use an insanity defense, since his psych evaluation had proven that he had no major mental illness.

"I could use a drink," he said out loud to himself. It had been almost a week since he'd last gone out and he knew Tricia's smiling face would be a nice respite from moping around his condo. Since he'd helped her paint, they'd had several friendly chats.

He went to his walk-in closet and pulled a pair of faded jeans off the shelf which he coupled with a light sage cotton sweater. After putting on a wool coat and placing a knit cap on his head, he picked up his keys and headed out. When he walked through the door of his favorite watering hole ten minutes later, he was surprised to see an unfamiliar face behind the bar. He went to his usual spot and sat down.

"What can I get you?" the pretty young woman with startling blue eyes asked after serving another patron a beer.

He was so flummoxed by Patricia's absence that he didn't even know what he wanted. "Um, I guess I'll take whatever ale you've got on draft."

She walked over to the row of taps. "River Valley okay?"

He nodded and watched as she filled the pint glass before placing it in front of him. "Thanks. Can I get an order of fries with gravy?"

"Of course. Anything else?"

"That's it."

She went to the kitchen and put his order in and then swung by the three occupied tables to see if they needed refills. After taking care of that, she returned to the bar and busied herself with tidying up the glasses and wiping down the counter. Zack brought out the plate of fries which she took and handed to Shawn. "Here you go."

Shawn was halfway through his dinner when the bartender asked if he needed another ale. He declined and asked for the bill instead.

"Nope, sorry," she said flatly. "I was given strict instructions to not accept payment from you."

He felt weird about this, and not just because she'd made it very clear that she knew who he was. It was one thing for Patricia to give him a complimentary drink on occasion, but the woman in front of him didn't seem thrilled with the idea. There was no point in arguing, so as he stood up to leave, he left several twenties next to his plate and glass to more than cover what he'd had.

Three days later, he went back to the Good Luck Lounge after a grueling therapy session. Paul had pushed him to talk about his thought process on that terrible night when he'd fucked up his whole life. Disappointment flooded his entire body when he found Patricia gone again. He had a glass of rye, which not-Tricia wouldn't accept payment for, and was in and out in under fifteen minutes.

A week passed and the same thing happened again. It was possible that the kind bar owner had taken an extended vacation, but his gut told him there was more to it.

"What's your poison tonight?" the replacement asked.

"I'll have a rye, thanks." As she set it down on a white napkin he spoke again, "Where's Patricia? I've been coming here a while and she's always here."

"She's not well."

Before he could ask what was wrong, the bartender hurried over to another customer. Eventually she had to circle back to him, though. While he waited, he was overcome with concern. What could have happened to Tricia? He was staring at his empty glass when a voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Refill?"

"No. I'm good. Is Patricia going to be okay? Was she in a car accident or something?"

She leaned closer to him, apparently to give them some modicum of privacy. "My mom has cancer."

He looked at the woman in front of him as if seeing her for the first time. How had he not noticed that she was a younger version of Patricia? She had the same auburn hair, worn in the same thick braid, though her mother's was streaked with the blonde that redheads often grayed to. Their large piercing blue eyes were identical, too. In fact, the two women even dressed similarly in button down shirts and black jeans with a white apron on top.

"Cancer?" he whispered.

"The doctors are optimistic, but the chemotherapy has her so sick that she had to be hospitalized."

Shawn's heart clenched at the thought of her suffering. "Fuck."

"Fuck is right."

"Is there anything I can do to help? I mean...I don't know your mom that well, but she's a great person."

"Unless you know how to tend bar, there's nothing you can do," she stated matter-of-factly.

"I can't help you there. Sorry. I'd love to send her some flowers. Would that be okay?"

"That's really not necessary."

Flowers were never a necessity, but he often relied on them to convey a message. In fact, he once had a standing order with a florist in Los Angeles to deliver two dozen roses to his girlfriend every week while he was on tour. Had that contributed to the "smothering" she'd accused him of?

"Would it be a problem if I sent some?" he asked.

"A problem? No. I didn't realize you were so close."

He suddenly felt awkward. They weren't that close; he was a regular customer, just like probably a dozen other people. Sure they'd spent the night painting the place together, but that didn't mean anything. It was the fact that she was the only person he felt comfortable talking these days to that made him feel like there was bond between them. Shawn stood up and took some cash out of his pocket and set it down. "Please tell Patricia I hope she feels better soon."

He was a block and a half down the street when he felt a hand on his arm. He swung around and saw Tricia's daughter standing behind him. "Shit, it's cold out here," she said as she rubbed her arms.

"Who's watching the bar?"

"Zack." She hesitated for a second. "Look...I'm sorry if I was rude. I have no idea what the deal is with you and my mom. She told me to comp your drinks because you helped with something, but that's all I know. If you two are friends then by all means send her flowers. I'm sure it would cheer her up."

Friends was probably the wrong word, but he couldn't think of a better one so he didn't correct her. "What hospital is she staying at?"

"General. She's in room 411."

"Does she have a favorite flower?"

She smiled for the first time since he'd met her. "Daisies. She loves them. I don't know if you can get them in the dead of winter, though."

You could get pretty much anything if you were willing to pay enough, but it would sound elitist to say that. "I'll see if I can find some."

"Cool. She'll be there at least another week. I'd better get back to the bar."

"Thanks for, uh, chasing after me to give me her info," he told her.

She gave him a nod and then turned and jogged away.