my behavior tonight color the rest of my actions? Would I be slapped with one of those derogatory labels that tend to say as much about the person labeling as the one being labeled?
Lush.
Slut.
Poor excuse for a mother.
No, I won’t entertain that last one. I’m a good mother. I’d give my life for my son. If Frank hadn’t died, I would have left him for Freddie’s sake. No questions asked. I never would have considered leaving before getting pregnant. Back then, I took what I was given. I didn’t even run, and hiding always did more harm than good.
That was more than six years ago, that little voice says in the back of my head. It’s a nasty nag of a voice, one that tends to love to bully and belittle and is especially loud on the days that I find myself sitting in a crowded bar.
I know how to speak to her, though. Where’s the proof?
I fiddle with the orange peel dressing the edge of my glass as I count the motherly actions I’ve performed in the past week. I worked. I earned an income. I got out of bed.
That last one is sometimes frighteningly the hardest.
And though I’ve left him with the weekend nanny, who arrives at nine AM Saturday morning and doesn’t leave until nine AM the next day, I always, always, always spend all of Sunday with him. I deserve this one night to myself. How I use this time bears no reflection on the kind of mother I am. Bears no reflection on the kind of human I am.
Say it enough times, maybe I’ll believe it.
The volume of the environment drops significantly as the band quits for a break. The quiet amplifies the noise in my head, but also makes me more aware of my surroundings. I feel the figure sidle up beside me before I see him, and when I look, it’s only a quick glance out my periphery, noting the strong forearm protruding from a rolled-up sleeve leaning on the bar at my side.
“Negroni, stirred, on the rocks,” he says, and then I have to look more closely, even though I already recognize him. If his thick American accent hadn’t given him away, the order surely would have.
I forget to breathe before I lift my eyes, which is a mistake, because as always, the wind is knocked out of me at the sight of him. He’s dressed himself up since class this morning. The same jeans maybe—hard to tell without standing back and fully ogling him—but now he’s exchanged his T-shirt for a crisp white dress shirt and a waistcoat that shows off his trim build. His face had been smoothly shaved earlier. Now stubble peppers his jaw and I’m slammed with a haptic memory of the burn of his rough jaw against the sensitive skin of my inner thighs.
I blink the thought away and raise my eyes to his.
“Make that two,” he says to the bartender, his gaze locked with mine.
I like being the focal point of his gaze. Whatever he sees when looking at me reflects back, and it’s like he’s turned on a light in this dark section of the bar. It’s like that light is me.
But I didn’t come here to be light. I didn’t come here to be seen.
Once again, rage courses through my veins. He’s already infiltrated my professional life, registering for my class like he did. Now he’s trying to steal my recreational life as well?
He can’t have it. He can’t have any more of me than he already has. I won’t let him.
It’s only the intensity of my need to protect this one sacred space that gives me the energy for an outburst. “No,” I say clearly. Firmly.
Not helpful, really, since I’ve put the word out there without any context.
I try again. “Did you follow me here? Are you stalking me? I’ll get the authorities involved if need be. This is highly unprofessional. What on earth are you after? You can’t just invade my life like this. Don’t you get it? I don’t want you here.”
A little more aggressive than needed, perhaps, but I’m not practiced in handling conflict constructively. Dr. Joseph would be impressed I attempted to handle it at all.
Hendrix’s brow furrows. “I, uh. Didn’t know you’d be here, honestly.”
Which has to be a load of bullshit because obviously. “You expect me to believe out of all the bars you could find yourself at in this city you end up at the one