by Natalie Ward
But then I realise that he’s forgotten about her too, and I’m not sure if that doesn’t make me even angrier. That he could do this to her and to me. That he could be this kind of guy.
So with my hands against his chest, the letters of her name still visible through my fingers, I shove him as hard as I can. I don’t expect it to make a difference, he’s twice the size of me, but miraculously, it does.
Nick rolls to the side, his body falling between mine and the back of the couch as I scramble up off it.
“Emma, wait,” he says, his hand reaching for mine.
I snatch my hand away, nearly tripping on the coffee table as I rush for the door. I hear Nick push off the couch, the bump as his leg connects with the table and the angry curse that falls from his mouth.
I race into the bar, not daring to look back as I reach for my phone, my purse and my coat. Nick is close behind me and I feel his fingers wrap around my wrist, the urgent plea in his voice as he says, “Please, just wait a second.”
I don’t even look at him, shaking my head angrily as I snatch my arm away and head towards the door. I yank on it, releasing a frustrated groan when I discover it’s locked.
My fingers fumble for the bolts, slipping and I feel the sharp tear of metal against flesh, the searing pain as my skin tears.
“Shit,” I mumble, lifting my finger to my mouth, the rusty taste of blood almost making me gag.
Somehow I manage to get the door open, the icy blast of winter air bringing the clarity I need right now. I see a taxi turning the corner; it’s telltale roof light letting me know it’s available as I practically run for the street, arm raised in a desperate attempt to flag it down.
“Emma, please, just wait, let me explain,” Nick says, pushing the door open. “Fuck,” he shouts as the cold winter night now hits his bare chest.
I yank open the back door before the cab has even come to a complete stop, refusing to look at him as I throw myself inside and bark my address at the driver. He stares at me for a second longer than I would like and it’s only when I scream at him to go, that he finally turns back to the road and starts the meter.
As the car door locks click and I know I’m in the safety of this taxi, I finally allow myself to turn and look at Nick. I’m surprised to see him standing right beside my door, bare chested still and with his hand pressed against the glass of my window.
The cab starts to move slowly away, but as my eyes lock onto his, I see the pain on his face, the urgency with which he looks at me, almost begging me to give him a chance to explain. But then I see the tattoo, and I’m reminded again of why I need to get out of here.
So I look away, closing my eyes as I silently plead with the driver to just go.
~ Nick
God, I have monumentally fucked up here.
I should’ve explained things.
Should’ve explained a lot of things actually, way before we ever got to this point.
There’s so much more to this than she realises and it’s nothing like what I’m guessing she must think.
But she’s gone. Disappeared in a taxi to god knows where and I have no idea how or where to find her, let alone explain things to her.
Fuck.
I stand in the middle of the road, watching as the taillights from the taxi slowly disappear. I can’t believe that one just happened to be driving past as she came racing out of the door. Of all the fucking times.
“Shit,” I say, shoving my hands through my hair as I spin back towards the bar.
A sudden blast of cold wind reminds me that I’m standing half dressed in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, and in the middle of winter. I stomp angrily back to the bar, slamming the bolts home on the door and hitting the lights, plunging the room into darkness.
I haven’t even finished cleaning the place, but at this point, I don’t give a shit. Instead, I head back to my office, wondering how in the hell things could go from amazing to shit in the blink of an eye.
I kick the door open in frustration and hear it slam against the wall, knowing it will have made a mark, possibly a dent in the plaster.
Why the fuck couldn’t I just explain everything to her? How is it that when I had the chance, I opened my mouth and nothing came out? Nothing?
And it’s so goddam fucking simple and ridiculous how much she has misinterpreted this. The worst part about it all is I have no fucking idea how to find her to explain it.
I grab my shirt, yanking it on as I fall back onto the couch, leaning forward only to grab the bottle of whisky as I do the exact opposite of what I’d told Emma only moments ago and take a long gulp. The liquid burns on the way down but it feels strangely good, almost as though it’s reminding me I can feel something. That everything I was just feeling with her wasn’t a dream or a hallucination or some kind of perverted fantasy.
It was real. Really fucking real.
And now I’ve gone and fucked it all up.
I take another long pull, falling back as I stare up at the ceiling and try to work out what I’m going to do next. As shit as this all is, I know I need to. I know I want to as well. Because, despite my rule and despite what I know I should be doing, I can’t have her thinking what I know she’s now thinking. I can’t let her think that’s the kind of guy I am.
As selfish as that sounds and for all my bullshit about not fooling around with customers, or me trying to convince myself I don’t want anything with this girl, I know it’s all a load of shit. I do want something with her. I want a lot of things and I can’t even begin to explain why, only that I do.
I kick off my boots and swing my legs around, lying back on the couch in the exact spot Emma was just laying. The warm leather gives beneath me, the soft creaks of the material reminding me of the way it accommodated the two of us.
My eyes close as my mind takes me back, remembering every single sound she made as my fingers moved up her body, every feeling her touch elicited from mine, all the things I wanted to do to her in response.
It’s hard to believe someone I barely know, can affect me so much, can make me want so much.
But she does and it’s more than I’ve felt in such a long time, that I know it isn’t just real; it’s everything I’ve been missing out on.
And it’s for that reason, above everything else, that I also know I’m completely fucked.
~ Emma
I’m in tears by the time I get home, great heaving sobs that are impossible to hide.
“Emma, shit, are you okay?” Owen says, out of his room and in front of me the second I close the front door. “Are you hurt? Tell me what’s wrong.”
I bury myself against him, unable to answer as Owen wraps me tightly in his arms, pulling me even closer. I can’t speak, even if I wanted to, the sobs practically choking me as they fight my lungs for oxygen.
Owen seems to understand though, saying nothing more as he guides us to the couch, pulling me down with him as I all but crawl into his lap. The ache in my chest is almost unbearable, as though this pain I’ve been trying to ignore hasn’t just been from the taxi ride home or the last twenty-four hours. It’s almost as though it’s somehow been there my whole life.
Blunt force trauma.
So this is what it feels like?
“Em, talk to me, please,” Owen says, hands smoothing back my hair. “What’s going on?” There’s an underlying urgency to his question, as though he knows this is more than what it appears.
I’m not sure how long I sit here crying for, but at least once during that time, Will comes out to check everything’s okay. Owen whispers words I don’t hear, but they must be enough, because he doesn’t stay.
But I know this is unknown territory for both of us. I’ve never broken down like this in front of him. I’ve never broken down like this at all.
“Emma,” he eventually says, the word firm this time.
I finally lift my head, my eyes swollen and my nose so blocked I can barely breathe. I thought I looked like
shit when I got home from work tonight, but I’m sure it’s nothing compared to how I look right now.
“Talk to me,” he says again, thumbs swiping at the tears on my cheeks.
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally get out, having no idea how to explain what it is I’m feeling right now. Even I can’t make sense of it.
Owen smiles a little. “You wanna start at the beginning,” he suggests. “When you got to the bar. Sarah was okay?”
I shake my head. “Sarah had left.”
“What?” he asks, surprised.
I nod. “I didn’t see her all night,” I continue. “I mean we spoke and she was drunk, said all the usual things.”
“What do you mean?” Owen asks, confused. “Was she awful to you?”
I shrug, knowing really, it was nothing I didn’t already deserve.
“Then why are you so upset right now?” he asks, confused. “And if you weren’t out with them, where were you?”
I pull a tissue from my purse; blowing hard as I try to calm myself down, find a rationale explanation for my reaction just now. I slide off of Owen’s lap so I’m sitting beside him, suddenly desperate for a drink. Maybe some of the warm whisky I was drinking only an hour or so earlier.
The memory assaults me almost immediately. The burn of the drink as I threw back the whole glass. The sweet taste of it on Nick’s lips when he kissed me. The shock of what I saw, branded onto his chest, and the realisation at everything I’d done.
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the tears to go away, knowing I’ve cried enough over something I can’t make any sense of.
“Did something happen on the way home?” Owen asks, his eyes roving over my body as though looking for signs of damage.
He won’t find anything though, because this crack, whatever this damage is, it’s hidden. Buried somewhere so deep, I didn’t even know it existed. Not until tonight when Nick somehow pried it right open.
I shake my head, squeezing his hand as I offer a weak smile. “No, nothing happened.”
“Then what is it?” he asks, completely confused. “Where were you tonight?”
I force myself to take a deep breath as I try to get my thoughts in order, work out exactly how little I can tell him so that my reaction makes sense but doesn’t invite too many questions. “I was at the bar,” I tell him.
“The one you were meeting Sarah at?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“And you stayed there all night?” he asks.
I nod again.
“Alone?”
I bite my bottom lip, wondering how I should answer this exactly. Technically speaking, I was there alone.
“Em?”
I exhale hard, sinking back into the couch as I stare up at the ceiling. “Yes, I was there alone,” I say. “But I guess you could say I spent most of the night talking to the bartender.”
Owen says nothing for so long that eventually I have to turn and look at him. When I do, I see he has a small knowing smile on his face as he watches me.
“What?” I ask defensively. I don’t like this level of interrogation, even if Owen somehow manages to say more with his silence than he ever could with words.
His smile widens. “So you met someone?”
I shrug again. “He was just the bartender.”
“Just the bartender,” Owen repeats. “The bartender who I would hazard a guess and say was someone you might have found somewhat attractive?”
I say nothing, biting the inside of my cheek as I pray they don’t flush and give me away.
Owen laughs a little, sliding an arm around my shoulder as he pulls me against him. I rest my head against him and close my eyes as I hope this is somehow the end of it.
“So why all the tears?” he asks, squeezing my shoulder. “Did something happen…or not happen?”
I exhale. “Something happened,” I eventually say, wishing I could go to my room and crawl into bed and pretend this day never existed.
“And?” he prompts.
“And he has a girlfriend,” I say, my words a rush now, as I push off the couch. “So that’s the end of it and this is exactly why I don’t go on dates or hook up with guys or whatever. Because it always turns to shit and this was no exception.”
“Whoa, Emma, calm down,” Owen says, standing as he grabs my forearms and forces me to look at him. “Tell me what happened exactly?”
I shake my head. “Can’t we just do this in the morning?” I ask, knowing that if I stall for long enough we can just avoid talking about it at all.
Owen shakes his head because of course he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Nope, no chance.”
I exhale in a frustrated huff. “Fine,” I say. “We kissed, alright? We kissed and then I saw his tattoo of her name and then I remembered that the girl who’d come into the bar earlier tonight had that name and that she and Nick had kissed too and looked all super friendly and together. And that’s when I realised he was just like all the others and I was of course stupid enough to fall for it.”
Owen says nothing, just stares at me as I verbally spew the explanation at him. Even after I finish, he keeps watching me, as though searching to see if I’ve left anything out. I’m about to turn and walk to my bedroom when he finally says, “So exactly who kissed who in this situation?”
“O!” I say, yanking my arms from his grasp and flinging them up in frustration. “Does it matter?”
“Well,” he says, head cocked as he smiles at me. “It might help clarify things.”
“Ugh! I don’t know, okay. I don’t know which of us started it. But it went further than it should have and when her name tattooed across his chest was in front of my face, I realised what a complete idiot I was.”
“Wait, his tattooed chest?” Owen asks. “You mean, you got his shirt off?”
“God, Owen!” I yell, turning and walking to my room. I slam the door shut, wishing I’d never said anything. Wishing I’d been able to control my stupid emotions better so Owen had never even known about it. I throw my coat on the chair just as Owen opens the door and walks in. “Go away,” I say, not looking at him as I kick off my heels.
“Emma, come on,” he says. “I’m sorry, really.”
“You are not,” I say, like a petulant child.
Owen sits on my bed, that same half smile on his face as he watches me have my mini tantrum.
“What?” I spit out, yanking down the zipper of my dress.
“I take it you really like this guy?” he asks.
I glare at him, debating as to whether I should make some sarcastic comment. “Doesn’t matter if I do though, does it?” I say instead.
“Well,” he shrugs. “What was this guy, Nick isn’t it? What was his reaction to it all?”
I shrug. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
“Wait, what, you didn’t even give him a chance to explain?”
I shake my head, walking towards the bathroom so I can take a shower and wash off the reminder of tonight and everything that happened. The smell of whisky and Nick still lingers on my skin and right now, I just need it gone.
“Emma,” Owen says, standing in the doorway. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe the tattoo is from an ex-girlfriend?”
“She was in the bar tonight, O,” I say, angrily pulling the shower curtain across. “I saw them together, remember?”
“And you’re sure it’s the same girl?”
I stick my head under the scalding water, raking my fingers through my still tousled hair. I’m reminded again of the feel of Nick’s fingers, gentler as they moved through my hair, firm as they held the back of my neck and pulled me closer. Shit.
“What?” Owen asks and I realise I’ve said it out loud.
“Nothing.”
“Emma,” he says, waiting so he knows I’m listening. “Maybe there’s more to it than what you realise,” he suggests. “Maybe she’s not his girlfriend and the tattoo is from an ex and you’ve completely misinterpreted the situation.”
“Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes even though he can’t see me. “Because I really am that stupid.”
Owen says nothing now and I know we’re both thinking the same thing. No, I’m not that stupid, but I’m not exactly that experienced when it comes to guys and relationships either. Which is not to say I haven’t had them, or at least been with guys. I have. They’ve just never materialised into anything long-term. For so many reasons.
And tonight is another classic example of why it’s better I keep things that way.
I switch off the water and step out; surprised to see Owen is still in the room. He hands me a towel, turning away even though we’ve both seen each other naked plenty of times.
“Thanks,” I mumble, drying myself quickly. I slide on some pjs before slathering my face with moisturiser. Then I switch out the light and walk back into my room, crawling into bed.
Owen follows me, sitting down beside me as he picks up my hand in both of his. Just as I’m bracing myself for more advice on how I should have dealt with tonight, I’m shocked when he says, “I think I’d like to meet this guy.”
“What?” I ask, pulling my hand from his. “Why?”
He smiles at me, but it’s sad this time, almost pitying. “Because,” he says, gently, “any guy that can get this kind of reaction from you, this much…emotion,” he adds carefully, picking up my hand again. I watch as he kisses the back of it, squeezing it as though to apologise. “Well, it takes some guy to make you this vulnerable.”
I exhale now, suddenly exhausted and desperately wanting to go to sleep. “Vulnerable is weak,” I tell him, sliding down under the duvet. “And in any case, it doesn’t matter because he’s taken and that’s the end of that.”
Owen gets up, leans in to press a kiss to my forehead. He walks to the door and I think we’re at the end of this conversation and analysis of my non-existent love life. But just as he’s about to walk out, he pauses, turning to look at me as he says, “Vulnerable isn’t weak, Em. And anyway, you’ll never put a patch on your vulnerability until you expose it first.” I open my mouth to speak but Owen holds up a hand. “Give him a chance, at least a chance to explain.”