by Cole Gibsen
“Okay.” He takes his arm off my shoulder. “I’m going to ask that cute guy over there to dance.” He points to a bearded redhead standing alone by the stage. “If you’re not back by the end of the next song, I’m going to come find you.”
“Deal. Good luck.”
Eddie winks before ducking around a dancing couple on his way to the stage.
I head toward the door, only to stop after a couple of feet.
His usual sport coat has been replaced with a leather jacket, but there’s no mistaking that body, or the slight limp when he moves, despite not using his cane today. He’s talking to someone I can’t see through the crowd of dancers. What the hell is he doing here?
“Reece!” I call out. He doesn’t look up. Must not be able to hear me over the music. I walk toward him just in time to see a pretty brunette slide her arm around his waist and guide him to the door.
I gasp, feeling like I’ve just been punched in the gut. My heart falls from my chest, sliding all the way to my ankles.
The brunette looks every bit like the type of girl he should be with. Long, straight hair, boring makeup, and not a tattoo in sight. I bet she was in a sorority. She probably owns several strands of pearls.
She grabs the door handle, but Reece hesitates. Turning, our eyes meet. He holds my gaze for several seconds, then turns and walks out the door.
My stomach clenches so tight I’m sure my whiskey is going to make reappearance. I stumble to the bar. My hands are shaking as I flag Ren over. “I need a drink,” I gasp.
Ren frowns. “Honey, I know breakups are hard, but you’ve been drowning your sorrows in booze for a week straight. Maybe it’s time to ease up.”
I grab the edge of the bar so tightly my knuckles turn white. My throat is so tight I can barely breathe. “Tonight is not the night to take it easy. Drink. Please.”
Ren’s face softens. “Did something happen?”
“He was here.” I lick my suddenly dry lips. “With another girl. The asshole looked right at me and pretended I didn’t exist.”
Ren says nothing, only grabs a glass and fills it with two finger-widths of Crown. Before handing it to me, she mutters, “What the hell,” and makes it a double.
“Thank you so much.” My entire body is trembling when I take the drink. I tip it back in one long swallow. Immediately, comforting warmth blankets my insides. The trembling lessens. “You better keep these coming.”
Ren frowns. “Okay. But just for tonight.”
“Just for tonight,” I echo.
Ren starts to leave and I snag her wrist. “If it’s all right with you, can I stay at your place again? I’m not ready to be alone—not yet.”
Ren nods. “Sure, honey.”
I let go of her hand. She glides down the opposite end of the bar, snagging two beers along the way.
I know Eddie will be wondering what happened to me, but I can’t go back on the dance floor. I feel as if my heart’s been pummeled with a jackhammer. Every intake of breath hurts. Blinking hurts. Existing hurts.
I reach for my glass and lick the few remaining drops of whiskey.
At least I know exactly how to chase away the pain.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Reece
The bar patrons cheer in unison at some play I missed because I’m too busy watching the condensation trickle down my beer bottle. I glance at the television to see the replay. With a bases-loaded homerun, the Cardinals have taken the lead.
I can’t bring myself to care even a little bit.
Tonya frowns at me from the barstool to my right. “Why are you even here, Reece?”
I shake my head and pick at the corner of the beer label. It’s been two months since I spotted Emily with another guy at the bar. While Tonya’s taken me out nearly every weekend since, she’s been unable to break through the numb haze surrounding me. “I have no idea.”
She snorts before taking a long swig of her beer. When she’s finished, she sets her beer down and mumbles, “God, men are idiots.”
I glare at her. “What?”
“Men are idiots,” she repeats, loud enough that several nearby men turn to scowl at her. The bartender, on the other hand, nods. “You’ve been nothing but miserable for the last two months. Call her.”
“I’m not going to call her. She moved on. You saw it yourself, remember?”
Tonya rolls her eyes. “You don’t know that. That guy could have been just a friend.”
“Friends don’t dance like that.”
She makes a disgusted sound. “You’re a moron.”
I take a sip of my beer. It’s warm. “Why the hell am I friends with you?”
“Because nobody else would put up with you.”
I shrug, because I know it’s true. My mood swings and anxiety have only increased since Emily left. Even now, I’m afraid to look anywhere but at my lukewarm beer, out of fear I’ll see Chad in the shadows, scowling at me, eyes narrowed with accusation.
A manifestation of my guilt, my therapist says. Not real, he reminds me during our visits. I had to increase them thanks to my insomnia and increasing panic attacks. Ghost or guilt, it doesn’t really matter, because he feels real. That’s what keeps me up at night.
“Call her,” Tonya repeats.
I grunt. “I’m not going to harass her. She doesn’t want me.”
“She doesn’t want to get married.” Tonya pokes my chest with her finger. “That’s different from not wanting you.”
“Maybe.” With one swipe, I rip the label off my beer and crumple it in my hand. “If she loved me, really loved me, why would she have moved on so fast?”
“How do you know she moved on?”
I make a face and take another sip of my beer.
“You’re being unreasonable,” Tonya says.
“I know what I want. I don’t have time to waste for someone to get their shit together.”
She tips the neck of her beer at me. “Dude, you’re only twenty-eight.”
“Exactly. And I haven’t done shit to show for it.”
“Reece, you fought for our country and lived to tell the tale. Now you’re a teacher, molding the minds of future generations. You’ve done more than most people do in a lifetime.”
I turn away and focus on my beer. “It’s not enough.”
The bar erupts into another round of cheering. I flinch.
“Okay, then.” Tonya’s voice is softer, soothing even. “What will make it enough?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter then take another swig. A shadow shifts behind me. I won’t—can’t—look. I’m too afraid it’ll be Chad staring at me as his life bleeds out of his neck. “Sometimes I think nothing will.”
“I don’t believe that.” She shakes her head.
I make a face. It doesn’t matter what she believes, it’s not her truth to face. “You don’t know what happened.”
“I don’t have to,” she counters. “Whatever it was, you don’t deserve a life of misery.”
I slam my bottle down so hard beer sloshes over the lip and runs down my fingers. “I don’t deserve a life at all. It should be him here. Not me.”
She touches me, her fingers sliding over mine. Her hands are larger than Emily’s, her fingers more delicate. Noticing the differences, I realize how badly I miss Emily’s touch. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
“Why?” My voice cracks.
“I’ll help you figure that out.” She hesitates. “I bet if Emily were here, she’d help, too.”
“No. I’m too damaged, too fucked up, Tonya. She’s better off without me.”
“And there it is.” She releases my hand and motions to the bartender to bring us two more beers. “I wondered how long it would take you to finally admit it.”
“What?” I ask.
“The real reason you pushed her away.”
Before I can respond, the bartender sets another beer in front of me. I push the old beer aside and take a long draw on the cold one. “It’s the truth,” I
finally mutter.
“No.” She places her hand on my wrist. “She’s not better off without you. She loved you, Reece. And you loved her.”
Silent, I pick at the corner of the new beer’s label. “Even so,” I say finally, “it doesn’t matter. She’s gone. And I’m still fucked up.”
“You are fucked up,” she agrees. “But Emily doesn’t have to be gone…at least, not forever.”
I grunt. “What the hell does that mean?”
She swivels to face me. “Take it from someone who’s dated her fair share of losers. You can’t be in a relationship until you have your shit together. And you, my friend, do not have your shit together.”
“Didn’t I just say that?”
“But what if you did?” she asks. “I mean, there’s not a person alive who has all their shit together, but what if you got like…seventy-five percent of it together?”
“What?”
“Okay, you’re right. That may be too optimistic. Sixty-five?”
I snort. “And how do you propose I do that?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “But I’m willing to help you figure it out.” She pauses. “On one condition.”
“And that is?”
“Afterward, you call Emily.”
“I already tried that.”
“So, you’ll try again.”
I wave a hand in the air. “Whatever. Sure. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks.
“It means your naïve confidence that I can be fixed is adorable.”
She scowls. “I’m not trying to fix you, you idiot. And I’m not naïve enough to think that can happen overnight. But I’m willing to help you find the path that sets you in the right direction.”
I roll my eyes and take another long draw from my beer bottle. “You do that.”
“I will. And then you have to call Emily.”
“And then I’ll call Emily.” I agree because I know, without a doubt, that will never happen. There’s no fixing me. And there’s sure as hell no path in that direction. The desert is as much a part of me now as my blood. Each beat of my heart pushes it deeper inside me.
Tonya’s right about one thing, though. I am an idiot. Or at least, I was. Thinking, even for a moment, I could have a normal life with a normal relationship. Maybe asking Emily to marry me was my way of pushing her away. Still, she’s better off.
Emily is vibrant, too full of life for me to let my darkness infect her. The only path I walk is one littered with death, blood, and ghosts. That’s one path I’m determined to walk alone.
Chapter Thirty
Emily
“You’re cut off.” Ren scoops the pyramid of empty shot glasses up from in front of me and deposits them into a bin for washing.
“You can’t do that.” I blink at my cell phone, trying to make sense of the numbers blurred on the screen. “It’s only six o’clock.”
Ren folds her arms across her chest. “It’s nine o’clock. Not that the time matters. You’re trashed.”
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
She laughs. “Actually, it’s my bar, so I can.”
“I’m an adult.” The words come out whinier than I intend.
“Really?” She takes a step toward me. “You sure as hell haven’t been acting like one.”
I wrinkle my nose—or at least, I think I do. Honestly, I can’t really feel my face. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m tired of you ending each day shit-faced in my bar. That’s not grownup-like behavior.”
“Screw you. I thought bartenders liked it when people drank in their establishments. Whatever. I can take my money elsewhere.”
I try to stand, but the ground wavers beneath my feet. I clutch the bar top to keep upright.
“You’re not going anywhere.” Ren grabs my keys. “I called your brother. He’s on his way to pick you up.”
“I don’t need my keys. I can call an Uber.” I reach for my phone, but Ren swipes it from under my fingers. “Bitch.”
Ren’s face darkens. “I’m going to ignore that, honey, because this isn’t you. But I have to warn you, my patience is wearing thin.”
I plop back down on the barstool. “I guess you don’t really know me at all, then. Because this is exactly who I am.”
Ren raises an eyebrow. “How’s that?”
“Drunken, directionless, loser. That’s who everybody thinks I am. I’m just living up to expectations.”
Ren leans across the bar and takes my hands in hers. “That is not who you are.”
I grunt and withdraw my hands from hers. “Shows what you know.”
Ren leans back with a sigh. Her eyes drift toward the door. “We can get a second opinion if you like.”
I follow her gaze to see Ashlyn walking toward me, her brow creased with lines of worry.
A tangle of guilt winds through my gut. I know I’m the one that put those lines there.
“Emily, what’s going on?” Ash asks, swinging her purse onto the bar top and settling onto the stool beside me. “Ren called and…” She inhales deeply. “You’re just lucky I talked your brother into staying home.”
I shrug. “You should have let him come. What’s the worst he can do? Yell at me? Tell me stuff I already know?”
Ash leans back. “So it’s a pity party, then?”
“Yeah, so? Throwing pity parties is just another one of my endearing qualities. Like being a loser.”
She makes a face. “You are not a loser.”
“Tell that to Lane. Tell that to my boss at the coffee house. Tell that to…Reece.” I nearly choke on his name, forcing me to look away. It’s been almost three days since I last thought about him. Maybe weeks since I spoke his name out loud. God, saying it after all this time hurts just as bad as when I said it the night he was here in the bar…and he turned and walked away.
“Em,” Ash’s voice is softer. She places a hand on my shoulder. “You can’t keep going on like this. I love you too much to let you self-destruct. So do your mother and Lane.”
I stare at the empty pile of shot glasses in the dish tub. All of them are mine. “A person can’t change,” I tell her. “Why can’t any of you understand that? Why does everyone want me to be something—someone—that I’m not?”
“This isn’t you,” Ash says.
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re my best friend.” She smiles. “I know exactly how smart you are. How clever and funny. You’re an amazing aunt to Harper, a loving sister to Lane, and you’re the sister I never had.”
For reasons I don’t understand, her words burn, forcing me to look away.
“Em, you’re drowning in a sea of self-loathing and alcohol. You were there for me when I had nobody. Let me be here for you.”
I shake my head. “You can’t help me.”
She’s quiet for a moment before answering, “Maybe not. But I can take you to people who can.”
I snap my head up. “There’s no way in hell you’re going to make me go to rehab.”
“You’re right.” She nods. “I can’t make you. But I can drive you there. I can hold your hand when you walk inside. And I’ll be waiting to take you home when you’re ready.”
What feels like a thousand emotions collide inside me, creating a massive explosion. Hurt. Anger. Betrayal. Fear. “You can’t make me go,” I whisper.
“I’ve already packed you a bag. It’s in the car right now. We can go tonight. All I need you to do is say yes.”
A wedge of emotion lodges inside my throat. It takes me several moments before I’m able to speak. “I don’t want to go.”
She places a hand on my arm. This time I make no move to remove it. “Sometimes what we want and what we need are two different things.”
I think about that, making a list of all the things I thought I wanted. Fun. Travel. No commitments. No strings. But have any of those given me fulfillment? Were any of t
hose what I needed?
“Are you ready?” Ash slides off the barstool and extends a hand toward me.
I stare at it for several heartbeats. If I take her hand, things will change. Maybe for the better—maybe for the worse. If I don’t take it, I get to keep my life exactly the way it is.
Which is what? Aimless? Lonely? Awful?
“What will happen to me if I go?” I ask.
Ash smiles, leaving her hand waiting in the air. “I don’t know. But don’t you want to find out?”
I do, I realize, as I close my hand around hers.
I really do.
Chapter Thirty-One
Emily
I hate therapy. I hate therapy. I hate therapy.
It’s all I can think as I sit down in the plush arm chair across from the therapist. Well, that and how much I’d like to kill Ash and Lane for making me come here.
The therapist is an older woman, definitely a former hippie, with her bare feet, ankle-length skirt, and earrings that touch her shoulders.
“Emily.” She climbs onto a chair across from me, tucking her feet underneath her. “If it’s all right, I’d like to retouch on something you brought up yesterday—your grandmother.”
I grunt and let my head fall back against the chair. She doesn’t screw around—just dives right into my brain and pokes around with a fork.
Mary, the therapist, only smiles at my obvious reluctance. “She was the one that got you into baking, correct?”
I roll my eyes. “You already know the answer to this. We’ve been talking about it all week.”
Smiling, she jots down a note on her pad. I can’t piss this woman off, and it drives me absolutely insane. Pissing people off is a talent of mine—practically a superpower—and this woman is immune. “Right,” Mary continues, “and you mentioned your boss at the coffee shop rejected your baking proposal. That must have hurt especially bad. It must have seemed like she rejected you, and your grandmother as well.”
I pause before I answer. “Maybe…”
Mary sets her notepad aside and leans forward. I fight the urge to shrink back. “What if I told you, I think you rejected your grandmother before your boss ever had the chance?”
I jerk back like I’ve been struck. “I’d call you a crazy bitch.”