And it's good that he's looking forward to the future. I want that for him. And I wanted him carefree and happy, removed from this bullshit with Robin and my father. He's already gotten into it with each of them. So I guess it's good that he's over it. Over me. I wince at the pain slicing through my chest at the thought, but it's a sensation I've become accustomed to. It's what I signed up for, after all.
I follow Lily to the bar where we order two vodka-sodas. I start sipping mine in big gulps, wondering if, if I drink enough of it, it might dull some of this perpetual ache gripping my chest.
And then I sense Sam. It always happens. Like I've had a built-in radar for him from our very first meeting. My gaze inexorably slides his way and zeroes in on where he sits no more than ten feet away, in a corner booth, with Dave, Marshall, Andrew, and two hot girls.
And they really are hot. Not pretty really. Certainly not beautiful. But they're sexy. Curvier than I could ever be in every place guys like their women curvy, and dressed to show off those particular features, they're easily keeping the attention of Dave, Marshall, and Sam. It seems like he's engaged in conversation, though I can only see the back of his head. And I'm grateful for that. Because I'm not sure I could bear the sight of those midnight blues looking at either of those sexy girls with any level of interest.
A swell of grief washes over me. I hate feeling like this. Hate the idea of self-pity. It seems so dramatic and all woe is me. But I do feel bad for myself. I feel bad period.
I slurp up the last of my drink and order another. I glance back at the boys' table. Andy sits on the aisle, his back to the group, making eyes at Tina, who stands around with Carl, Lily and me.
They are being considerate. Because if everything was normal, we would all be sitting together in the same booth, but because of me, my girl friends aren't sitting with their boyfriends out of solidarity.
Sam and I have complicated everything.
But honestly, it doesn't even help. The bar is small enough that I can still see him, can hear the louder parts of his conversation with those girls. And I can hear in the slurry lilt of Sam's voice that he seems to have resorted to the same crutch as I have in my vodka sodas.
One of the hot girls giggles uncontrollably at something Sam said that I couldn't make out. It sends a swarm of red fire ants through my bloodstream. The alcohol is making its way through me, but instead of dulling the edge, it's doing the opposite.
"Oh yeah?" Sam's low, slow, inebriated timbre reaches my searching ears. I detect his flirtatious tone and it boils my blood, agitating the fire ants even more.
He knows I'm right here. He can't go find some girl to pick up after I leave?
I'm surprised at his gall and my breathing becomes fast and shallow in my growing anger. I am not panicking and I am not afraid, but I'm not exactly in control of myself either.
That slurping sound returns and I realize my glass is once again empty. The bartender is already serving me another before I can even ask for it. He shoots me an amused smile and I blink at him for a moment. Is my seething that obvious?
"You might wanna slow down," bartender says, "whoever pissed you off, you're not gonna get revenge by drinking yourself sick."
Lily, the only one not too engrossed in their own conversation or distant flirting with their boyfriend to have even noticed the bartender's observation, starts laughing. I glance at her and recognize the distinct signs of her flirtatious interest. She bats her eyelashes then flips her hair. I look back at the bartender.
He's good looking. I hadn't even noticed that he's good looking. I was too caught up in Sam and what he's doing.
"I can handle it," I reply with far more confidence than I actually feel. I hope I'm right. But I haven't taken a pill, so even if I get a little more drunk than I should, I doubt I'll get sick.
The bartender flashes me a wide, white smile. "I'm sure you can," he replies, but I can tell he's just humoring me, "but maybe let's throw in a glass of water before your next, huh? It's on the house," he jokes.
I force a halfhearted smile and grumble a cursory "thanks". Somewhere in my fuming, fuzzy mind I know he's just being responsible and kind, but I can't help but feel like he's mocking me. Like I'm just a stupid little girl who can't handle her liquor, who doesn't belong.
The shrill, tinny voice of the girl who obviously has her slutty, hot-girl sights on Sam could probably be heard by dogs blocks away. "I bet I know how to cheer you up," she says, her words crawling with suggestion. She doesn't even bother being coy. She just serves herself up to him. Not that I can really blame her.
At least I know that Sam is better than all of this. A guy like him doesn't have to settle for some easy girl coming onto him like a skanky predator. He could have any girl in the bar, in any bar really.
And then Sam's voice rings out again over the din. "I don't know, honey, it'd be a lot of work, I don't know if you're up for it." But there's a challenge in his words. He isn't discouraging her—he's doing the exact opposite.
And it's more than I can take.
What kind of insensitive asshole is he?! He knows I'm right here! He knows how I feel about him!
Surely Cap has no trouble getting laid, so why the fuck can't he wait until the girl who is utterly heartbroken over him isn't standing within fucking earshot?!
I'm vaguely aware of Carl and Tina exchanging a nervous glance and it reminds me that I'm not exactly being coy either, what with my deep scowl and the steam that is probably shooting out of my freaking ears.
"Oh I'm up for it, and I'm pretty sure I can get you, um, up for it," the shrill, slutty, voice replies.
I cringe.
But Sam chuckles. Fucking chuckles! And it's my chuckle--the one he used to give me when I said something he found cute or funny.
I actually, literally, growl.
I've covered the space between the bar and their table without ever having made a conscious decision to confront him. I'm only vaguely aware that all six pairs of eyes are on me as my own eyes shoot daggers at the source of my pain.
Sam.
"If you're gonna go fuck her, then just go fuck her already!" My voice is a bitter screech that I barely even recognize. The shocked expression on Sam's face quickly morphs to consternation, but I can't stop my words. "Does the whole fucking bar have to listen to you spittin' your stupid fucking game?!" I accuse.
"What the fuck do you care?" Sam replies, visibly working to keep his cool. But he was already pissed at me, he has been for weeks, so his tone doesn't surprise me. His words, however, make no sense at all. Because he didn't tell me to mind my own business or to get lost. He asked what I care about it, and that makes zero fucking sense, because he knows very well why I care, so I can't understand his choice of words. But instead of asking about them, or actually answering his question, I opt for the least mature route possible.
"No one wants to listen to you flirtin' your ass off with some stupid slut! Get a fuckin' room!" My accent is just out of fucking control, but I am drunk, and my words flood out before I can muster the focus to control them, or the accent flowing through them.
The hot-girl slut huffs indignantly, and out of the corner of my Sam-tunnel-vision I can tell she's glaring at him, willing him to defend her, and vaguely I wonder if he will. The thought terrifies me. Because as hard as it is to hear his flirting, I don't think I could physically handle him actually defending another girl to me. My heart couldn't take that.
Sam's eyes are glazed, half hooded in their boozy haze, and I've never seen him drunk like this before. He can barely hold his head up straight. Or maybe it's my own intoxicated vision that makes him appear so wobbly. It's probably a combination of both. And one thing is certain—it's a bad combination.
"If we want to get a room, we'll get a fucking room," Sam's voice is laced with hostility, but it's like his words have nothing to do with the girl included in the we. Like she's not even there. He's glaring at me. Glaring into me. As if he can see that his words have sliced open my c
hest and laid bare my broken, bloody heart for all to see.
My mouth opens to spew some biting retort, but whatever my words were meant to be, they don't come. I choke on them instead, and finally register Carl's grip around my wrist, her other hand gentling my shoulder, urging me to retreat.
"Rory…" Carl's tone says it all. That I am embarrassing myself. That at some point, when the alcohol wears off, and the cold light of day shines it's unforgiving light on tonight's confrontation, I will regret this dearly.
The last thing I want to do right now is back off. To retreat and let Sam and his slut get back to doing whatever it is they were going to do. My instincts tell me to prevent it in any way humanly possible. But I know I am drunk, and I make the choice to trust the judgment of my sober friend.
With the rush of my deep exhale, Carl senses me waver and firms her grip marginally, and the moment I register the moisture in my eyes, I give in. I allow Carl to tug me away from the source of the drama and into the bathroom, painfully aware of the muttered expletives and heated exchanges left in my wake.
Carl, Tina, and Lily watch me warily in the bathroom as I try to catch my breath, and my confused vodka-brain tries to work out if I'm more angry or upset. The truth is I am a dangerous mixture of both.
"You're going to regret that tomorrow," Carl warns me. "What were you thinking, Rory?"
But Tina answers for me. "She was thinking that that whore was hitting on Cap five feet away from her, duh."
Carl is the only sober one, and she's outnumbered. None of us are interested in the voice of reason right now. We're running on booze and emotion instead, me most of all.
"Well two can play that game, right? That super hot bartender has been staring at Rory all night," Lily says conspiratorially.
And I'm instantly inspired. Two absolutely can play that game.
I grab some tissues and wipe the bit of moisture that escaped the confines of my eyelids, fixing the makeup it smudged. Fortunately there isn't much since I'm only wearing some mascara. I ask to borrow Lily's lip-gloss and she watches as I put it on, her eyes alight with mischief. Carl's are full of concern, but she doesn't voice it. I take a few deep breaths, muster some false confidence, and make my way back to the bar.
We each order new drinks, except of course for Carl, and this time, I offer the bartender a sugary smile. Out of the corner of my eye I see that Sam's booth is mostly empty now. Only Tucker and Sam are still seated, while Tuck talks in hushed tones and Sam seems to chug as much beer as he can in as little time as he can. The hot slutty girls, including the one who had been flirting with Sam, are gone, and a quick survey of the small bar reveals that they've moved on to a group of hipster looking guys in the far corner.
A wave of relief rolls through me. But it doesn't change my plans. I am fueled by vodka, bitterness and resentment, and I need this distraction.
The bartender is receptive to my new friendly demeanor and he starts chatting me up about different types of patrons and their preferred drinks. I struggle to feign interest. I couldn't care less. Even though the bartender—who has definitely told me his name even though I can't for the life of me recall it—is pretty damn handsome. I find myself barely registering the conversation, and instead, I draw silent comparisons between his features, and the far superior ones belonging to Sam. Bartender guy has blue eyes too, but they're dull. They are missing that depth, that shimmer, that Sam's have. They don't have his impossible ability to see right through me.
Bartender guy also has what I'd call a baby face. Soft looking cheeks, without Sam's rugged bone structure, or the definition in his jaw. When he gets called away to serve drinks at the other end of the bar, I'm relieved. My plan isn't working. My heart just isn't in it.
I turn around to find myself staring at the friendly face of Dave. I sigh in defeat.
Dave nods in the direction of the bartender. "Seems you've got a fan, Pine."
I shrug. I can tell Dave is holding back. Certainly he's wondering about my outburst, but he has the decency not to ask me about it.
"You got a cigarette for me?" I ask.
Dave smirks, like he knows exactly how badly I could use a cigarette right now. He pats his pockets and comes up empty. I follow his gaze to the one booth in the bar I don't want to go anywhere near. At least not again. Dave smiles apologetically.
"They're in my jacket pocket. I'll go grab them, wait here," he says, and I nod.
Dave turns to go push his way through the faceless bodies, in no rush, obviously hesitant to interrupt whatever conversation is currently underway between Sam and Tuck.
"I got one for you, sexy," a low, unfamiliar New York accent slurs. I turn into the tall stranger that must have overheard my exchange with Dave. I don't say anything, but the drunk stranger is already producing a cigarette from his pack of Marlboro Lights.
I accept it with a murmured "thanks", and then turn back to Dave to see if I could get his attention to let him know I have one. But he's still looking for a safe way to interrupt a heated, beer pounding Sam and a seemingly reproachful Tuck to get to his jacket.
"Why don't you join me outside to enjoy it?" Drunk Stranger offers. I hadn't even realized he was still there.
"Um, no thanks. I'm waiting for my friend," I reply. I know Dave will keep me company while I smoke, even if he doesn't want one himself.
"Friend, huh? Not a boyfriend?" Drunk Stranger persists, and I vaguely shake my head. In my mind I'm laughing hysterically at the suggestion that Dave could be my boyfriend, but on the outside, I'm too uncomfortable to be anything but awkward. "Well in that case, I'm sure I'll be better company than he will." Drunk Stranger smirks suggestively and I practically cringe. I take a step back, but he advances, presumptuously infringing on my personal space and putting me immediately on edge.
"Um, no thanks. But thank you for the cigarette," I force out, but he's not taking the hint. Instead, he reaches out and fingers a lock of my hair, and I turn away from his touch.
"Don't." My voice is barely more than a whisper, and I don't know why I'm not being more forceful with my rejection.
Instead of backing off, Drunk Stranger's smile falls away and he seems put out. Like I've done something to offend him.
"Just come outside with me and smoke the fucking cigarette I gave you."
My eyes go wide. His fingers close around my wrist and pull to lead me outside and I gasp, my feet planting themselves firmly in my spot, digging my heels into the sticky floor. I want to shout that I'm not going anywhere with him, but I'm too drunk, and too surprised by his nerve to articulate my thoughts.
I yank my arm away and he lets go, seemingly surprised.
And then he's gone.
He didn't leave, he was just right in front of me—practically on top of me—one minute, and the next, he's flown several feet away. It takes a moment to register that the movement came from the force of Sam's fist flying into Drunk Stranger's jaw, the blow sending him half across the bar.
My jaw drops. I hadn't even seen Sam leave his booth.
Sam makes to jump on Drunk Stranger, to do even more damage, but Tuck and Dave are instantly there, holding Sam back, trying to talk him down. I can do nothing more than look on in horror. Sam is enraged, his restraints only exacerbating his fury, and his eyes dart from side to side, reflecting betrayal at his friends who are preventing him from going after Drunk Stranger.
Drunk Stranger stands, takes a moment to shoot me a dirty glare, and then spits blood onto the floor.
"Fucking touch her again, motherfucker! I fucking dare you!" Sam roars, and I flinch back at the wrath in his words.
Suddenly Sam's gaze swings to me and it morphs, his rage draining, replaced by horror. His fury fades as he gets ahold of himself and Drunk Stranger, now flanked by two of his friends, walks off into the bathroom muttering a barely intelligible rant about stupid frigid bitches and crazy Long Island assholes.
Sam rolls his shoulders, and Dave and Tuck cautiously release their hold. Sam is breath
ing hard, and he staggers a bit on his feet.
"Your friend needs to leave," bartender guy says softly to me. I look back at him, and then back to Sam. He must have balls of steel to tell Sam he has to go right now, even politely.
"No fucking problem," Sam spits bitterly, and then turns on his heel, stumbling slightly, and heads to the exit.
I am frozen in shock for one more moment before I make to go after him.
"Uh, Pine, you should say in here," Dave advises. Tucker nods in agreement, looking at me with such sympathy I wonder if Sam is more than just pissed at me, if he really just hates me now.
But he's drunk and upset, and what he thinks of me can't matter right now. He needs someone to look out for him. "I'm just gonna make sure he's okay," I mumble.
"We'll go," Tuck offers, but I shake my head adamantly. I need to see he's okay with my own eyes. Tuck sighs and shrugs, and I run on toward the exit, after Sam.
I find him two storefronts down in front of a closed pizza restaurant. He turns his back to me when he sees me, and it makes me hesitate. His shoulders heave, and I know he's trying to get ahold of himself, but I don't care. He can hate me all he wants, but I know he won't hurt me. I'm not afraid of him. I could never be afraid of him.
I don't say anything when I reach him, nor do I touch him. But he senses me, and turns around to face me.
"What, Rory? What do you want?" Sam stabs me in the gut with each bitter word.
"I... I just wanna make sure you're alright," I murmur.
Sam lets out a short, sardonic laugh. "You sure you want to be out here alone with me? I don't want to scare you." But his words are not earnest. They are accusatory.
"What are you talking about, Sam?"
And then he lets me have it. "What am I talking about?! You know what the fuck I'm talking about! What, am I him now? I shout at some prick and you cower like I'm going to what? Fucking deck you next?!"
He thinks that I think he's like Robin?
I shake my head fervently. "That's crazy! I didn't cower. I don't think you would—"
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