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The Tapwater Bar and Grill stood fifty miles or so south of Crossroads City, deep in the Utah wilderness. It sat on a stretch of road between a Native American reservation and an unincorporated town that barely bothered having a name, with a small desert range separating it from a long highway leading directly towards the Great Salt Lake. It didn't surprise me that everyone drove with a pickup truck and that most of them had extremely questionable stickers plastered on them. The remote location was, in all honesty, a serenely place. Too bad I didn't come for the drinks or the rural atmosphere.

I entered the seedy establishment and made my way directly for the bar. Secondhand smoke and spilt whiskey filled my whiskered nostrils as I surveyed the mammals present. Those not eyeing me were glaring down at their drinks, at the electronic relics of TV screens mounted above the bar's colorful display of bottles. The bartender, a perpetually frowning tiger taller and heavier than me, turned my way after refilling a random deer's drink.

"Got an I.D. on ya, kiddo?" he grunted.

I displayed my private detective badge to him. "I'll have a diet Coke for now. And a question or two, if you're not too busy." For emphasis, I handed him an extra five-dollar bill. He gave a very subtle nod after smirking down at my generous tip, which he was quick to pocket after handing me my soda-in glass cup too, with ice. How classy. "I was wondering if you'd seen a friend of mine around here lately. Name's Jamie? Arctic fox in his early twenties, big blue eyes, almost as short as me, and was possibly wearing a tuxedo. Kinda hard to miss."

The bartender let out an amused snort. "Sure did see him last night," he replied. "Poor guy looked like he had his heart ripped out. Was he a groom?"

"Supposed to be," I said, keeping it vague.

"Damn," the tiger let out a disillusioned snarl. "Did he leave her at the altar?"

"You...could say that," I answered.

I didn't need to turn around to catch glimpses of people hearing my conversation with the bartender. Due to the nature of what was going on, as well as not wanting to divulge sensitive information on clientele to random drunkards and farmers, I decided to keep my words vague enough. Traveling all the way out there had already been enough of a headache. I didn't need to deal with casual homophobia either.

"Did he ever mention if he was staying at a motel?" I asked the bartender. "Somewhere nearby?"

I wasn't going to say it out loud, but I definitely didn't want to have to travel to every roadside in or shabby hotel within the next fifty miles. Even if I had the time or the patience, let alone the mode of transportation, other than Daniel sitting patiently in his car out in the parking lot, there was no telling if Jamie Norwood would stay in one place by the time we were finished looking for him.

"He did," replied the striped tiger. "But it was pretty packed that night and I have a bit of a troubled memory. It's often hard to remember."

I let out a frustrated sigh. Of course. Then, rifle into my pocket and place to be additional five-dollar bill in a tip jar that the bartender casually pulled over within arm's reach for me. The smug tiger let out a satisfied, drilling noise once the folded green paper fell into the pile of others.

"Now I remember," the bartender mildly suggested, "If you're looking for your 'friend', you wouldn't need to look far. When he wasn't bitching and moaning about love and how much everything costs, he is complaining about the shitty breakfast food and broken Jacuzzi. Gotta mean that he's staying at the Tahoe Inn. It's a tiny joint on the outskirts of a village called Verlin, right off the highway leading towards Crossroads."

I finally opened my Coke to drink the entire can down in one sip.

***

Once again, Daniel dutifully waited for me out in the parking lot, but this time, I entered an old box-shaped motel and politely asked the bored receptionist for the room of an Arctic fox named Jamie Norwood. It didn't take long for me to get the room number after showing my badge, then knock on the random door.

"Jamie?" I spoke up when nobody answered. "Jamie Norwood? Ya in there?"

Shuffling could be heard inside. I felt somebody watching me through the peephole.

"Who the fuck're you?" a dreary voice demanded. "Go away..."

I held up my P.I. badge in plain view. "I'm a private eye that your parents hired," I explained carefully, concernedly. "They were concerned about your after what happened."

"What happened?" he repeated.

"The...The...um, meltdown at ceremony," I clarified, "and how everyone reacted when your fi-ex-fiance, got caught."

"Rule of advice, Mister...Mist...Detective...Sher...Sherlock...Holmes," Jamie drawled and slurred his words, sounding obviously still drunk. It was all confirmed when the door swung open, the stench of urine and spilt whiskey permeated out of the room. Poor Jamie Norwood still wore his stinking groom's attire, now half-disheveled, stained with junk food, and wafting what smelled like rancid beer. "Never...Never marry a buh...buh...bastard! Never try! To...A bastard...named Chad..."

"Duly noted, Jamie." I did my best to hide my grimace, sending a text to his parents about the location. I'd found him. "Mind if I come in? Your folks'll be here in a couple hours to talk to you."

"Whuh...What about...Chaaaaaaaaad?" he moaned. "I don't wanna see him!"

"The wedding's off," I reassured him, stepping inside the motel room anyway. I avoided crushed beer cans and a vomit stain next to the bathroom door. "Your mom and dad told me so, and as revenge, they're making Chad pay all the bills for this whole shitshow."

Jamie laughed. "Good! He should be in debt forever..." He closed the door and took several steps before collapsing atop the messy bed, groaning. "So, Sherlock...how'd ya...yah find me...find me...like, out here?"

"You posted a photo to MuzzleScroll of the mountain range in the distance," I explained, crossing my arms as I leaned against the wall. "Y'know, the one where you wrote a rant about the future and how happiness seems distant and out of reach? You didn't include your location but forgot all about the photo's metadata."

"Ehh?" he sounded half-confused, half-annoyed. "Meta-what?"

"I'd recommend looking it up once your sober," I said. A text from both Mr. and Mrs. Norwood told me they were on their way, and that they'd appreciate it if I kept close by. I smiled softly, then decided to phone Daniel outside. He picked up seconds later. "Daniel, it might be a while. Ya might as well come in and stave off the heat. It's Room 205."

"Don't need to tell me twice!" the Saint Bernard replied.

Jamie barked, "I ain't drunk, you're...ugh...who's that, Sherlock?"

"It's Watson," I dryly replied. "He's my assistant."

"I heard that, Zack!" Daniel teased, hanging up.

"Wanna know the worst part of all this?" Jamie asked a little more coherently, mumbling into a pillow. "The bastard wanted another...nother chance! He asked me to take him back. Forgive him! I...I wanted to say it, but there's...there was one thing preventing me from saying yes. I knew this wouldn't stop. Chad's a fucking man-whore. He'll never stop breaking my heart."

"I think I know a thing or two about heart break too, Jamie," I said. "So does my friend."

"You do?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered, honestly. "Tell you what? My friend's coming up to give us company, and until your parents stop on by to pick you up, bring you home, we can order some room service, and just...talk. You can even rant to us about whatever you want."

"Can I order some beer?"

I shook my whiskers, sighing. "Afraid not."