fucking asshole bastard.
That motherfucking asshole bastard.
That motherfucking asshole douchebag bastard.
I try to think of other bad words that I can call him as I take another pull of this terrible whiskey when a shadow falls on me, long and pervasive.
Pitch black.
I’m standing outside the bar, my spine propped against the brick wall, the liquor bottle clutched between my fingers.
As soon as I saw him in the bar, I froze for a few seconds. I thought I was dreaming until my friends started asking me questions about him. And well, it wasn’t hard for them to deduce that he is the guy. He’s the reason I’m at St. Mary’s.
And as soon as they realized that, I made a beeline for the whiskey, which I basically forced Will, the bartender and my brother’s friend, into giving me and got the heck out of there. Because I couldn’t be in the same room as Reed.
So this shadow that’s rapidly growing closer could belong to anyone. A stranger. And since there’s no one else around except a row of trashcans on my left, I should be afraid.
I’m not though.
My heart isn’t pounding out of fear. It’s pounding out of anger. And knowledge. My breaths are spasming and breaking because I know that shadow.
Even though I haven’t felt it in two years, I know it.
I know the guy walking toward me, prowling even, in lazy, languid steps.
Somehow I knew that he’d seek me out. I knew he’d come for me because just when I saw him, he saw me as well. And when he reaches me, I realize that maybe I shouldn’t have left the confines of the bar.
I shouldn’t have come outside, all alone.
Because in this moment, as he stands before me, I also realize that I was wrong before.
I said that my heart wasn’t pounding out of fear. I lied.
There is fear.
Oh yeah, there is – among other things – and because of it, I’m not looking at him.
I can’t.
Maybe because as long as I don’t look at him, I can pretend that he isn’t here. That I didn’t see him at the bar and I’m not drinking whiskey because of him.
It’s stupid logic but I think I’m allowed that because God, he is here.
But anyway, I chicken out and avert my eyes from his large, dark frame and look at something else. Something over his shoulders, a bright white thing that practically demands all my attention.
His white mustang.
His baby. That’s what he used to call it when I knew him.
It’s parked in the lot behind us and it’s so freaking shiny and posh and so out of place in this area of Bardstown that even if I wanted to look at something else, I wouldn’t be able to.
So I look at his car.
But no matter how hard I stare at it, trying to deny that he’s here, I can’t tune out the fact that he’s staring at me.
I can’t tune out the fact that it’s been two years since I last saw him and I’d almost forgotten how powerful, how enticing, how bad his stare can be.
How it could make me do anything.
So despite all my silly logic and denial, I break down first because I want him to take his dangerous eyes off me and say, “Your baby looks good.”
There. I said the first words and they totally sounded casual and breezy.
I mean, it’s not as if I’m an expert at all things breakup. But I do know that when you encounter your ex-boyfriend, let’s say for the first time in two years after a super ugly breakup, the first thing is to look casual.
And I think I did that.
I did it, didn’t I?
I sounded casual. Right?
Oh my God, what if I didn’t sound casual? What if…
“She does.”
That’s all he says and I get my answer.
I get that I did sound breezy. I did.
Because he didn’t sound breezy at all. He sounded intense. His two words sounded heavy and laden with things. Things that make me think that he wasn’t talking about his stupid shiny car at all.
He was talking about something else. Someone else…
Like me.
And then I have to look at him to confirm and I do and well, my friends were right. He is gorgeous.
Damn him.
He is shiny. Even shinier than his expensive car.
It took me a lot of time to figure out why, back when I was naïve and in love. Why does he shine more than any other person that I’ve met? What’s the secret?
It’s his very