Chapter 9 Is It Really You?
Claire
Ireally should’ve kept the jacket until I got back to my apartment, and then I could’ve gotten rid of it properly instead of leaving it behind with those bitches and freezing my ass off.
Wanting to clear my head, I decided to walk home, but with every step, the bitter cold has sunk deeper into my bones, and now I’m just angry.
Mad that I was too stupid to figure out that he was sleeping with me on the side.
Furious that he lied so often, and I believed him every time.
Enraged that I mistook Lily’s kindness for friendship.
Fuck him and her and Monica and all her friends for making me feel like this.
I’m almost back to my place when I pass by Fritz’s Hideaway.
It’s a dive bar down the street from my apartment that I’ve always seen but never entered.
But tonight, something about it calls to me.
Maybe it’s the fact that I’m nearly hypothermic, or maybe I’m just not ready to go home alone.
But, without giving it much thought, I pull the heavy wooden door open and walk inside.
It’s a small establishment. Exposed brick and worn wooden floors give it a warm, welcoming atmosphere.
There’s a long bar on one side, and on the opposite wall is a row of retro pinball machines.
The walls are decorated with an eclectic mix of video game and movie memorabilia.
Two TVs are mounted on the back wall in front of two red couches.
A group of men are gathered and playing some old-school video game.
Already feeling a little warmer, I brush off some of the snow stuck to my clothes and remove my hat. Smoothing my hair, I make my way over to the bar and sit on one of the leather barstools.
It’s relatively quiet, but Rick Springfield’s “Jessie’s Girl” is playing just loud enough that you can enjoy it without getting a headache.
Other than the small group in the back, there are two men sitting at one of the tables playing handheld video games.
A woman and man are sitting at another table deep in a game of chess.
It’s clear I’m out of my element, but there’s something comfortable about being here.
“What can I get ya?” the bartender asks with a warm smile. He’s an older man, with graying hair and wrinkled skin.
“Um, any chance you have coffee? I’m freezing.”
“I do.”
“I’ll take one with some cream.”
He nods and walks away.
Pulling out my phone, my finger lingers over Raph’s contact, and I blow out a long breath.
I don’t want to relive the humiliation that I experienced back at the arena.
I don’t want to hear him try to explain himself.
I just want this shit show to be over so I can move on and focus on me.
Today was a good day until he ruined it.
Clicking on his name, I pull up our text thread. My whole body recoils as I read the last thing he sent me, causing me to drop my phone onto the bar top.
Raph:
Don’t make plans for after my game. I have a feeling I’ll be hungry later
Sitting there, I contemplate if I should text him. What a fucking douchebag, sending me that shit when he has a girlfriend.
This is why I don’t usually mess with hockey players. This is why I steer clear of athletes—because this shit always happens. They’re all cocky. They’re all playboys. And they all think they can get away with absolutely asinine behavior.
The bartender returns with my drink, and I pick it up, taking a few sips. The hot, creamy coffee dances on my tongue, warming me up and giving me the confidence to do what I should’ve done before I left the arena.
Placing the mug down, I grab my phone. The tongue emoji makes my stomach churn, and I do my best to ignore it as I type out my message.
Ran into Monica after the game. Lose my number you piece of shit. We’re over.
Harsh, but valid and completely deserved. I hit send and set it back on the bar top, feeling proud of myself for not giving him the chance to try to explain himself and risk falling for his bullshit. I don’t care if he responds. I’d actually prefer it if he didn’t.
Taking another sip of my drink, my shoulders relax for the first time since I saw Monica, and I do my best to focus on the good things that happened today—seeing my sister, my parents agreeing to come to the city for Christmas, and getting the part I’ve always wanted.
I was given my dream role, in my dream ballet, and he’s not going to tarnish this day for me.
I won’t give him any more of my energy because he’s not worth it.
A cold rush of air blows through the bar, causing me to shiver. Turning to see where it came from, the mug nearly slips from my hand.
Standing in the doorway is a tall man with broad shoulders.
His brown hair sticks out under a backwards hat, and I watch as he unwinds the scarf around his neck, revealing his chiseled jaw that is covered with a short beard.
I can’t see his eyes from here, but I don’t need to.
I already know that they’re the perfect mix of brown and green.
He shrugs off his black wool peacoat, and I take him in.
Under his jacket, he’s wearing a white hoodie and black sweatpants.
He causally drapes his scarf and coat over his arm and then stomps his feet on the mat, kicking off the snow that has accumulated on his tennis shoes.
Moving deeper into the bar, he looks over in my direction for the first time.
Heat crawls up my neck when he catches me staring, and he lets out a low chuckle. His mouth breaks into a wide grin.
Lifting my hand into a small wave, I sip from the edge of my mug and watch as he moves directly for me.
The air between us is instantly charged and familiar. He’s the last person I thought I’d see when I walked in here tonight, but I’m not mad about it. There is something reminiscent about me having a bad day and him showing up to help me forget about it. I feel instantly transported back in time.
“Hey, Sugar,” he says, his eyes blinking, trying to take me in, and it’s apparent we’re both stunned to be looking at the other. I swallow hard, unsure of what to say. It’s been a long time since I walked him to the door of my loft and said goodbye.
“Is it really you?” he asks, breaking the silence that hangs between us. His hand connects gently with my face, and his thumb grazes the apple of my cheek like he’s checking to make sure I’m real. Electricity pulses through me under his touch before he realizes what he’s doing and pulls away.
“I never liked that nickname,” I say, lifting the corner of my mouth into a smirk.
“Never stopped me from using it before,” he says, mirroring my facial expression.
I let out a small laugh. “You alone?” Peering behind him, I half expect a woman or a group of Crowns players to appear.
He nods. “Yeah. You? Or should I be worried Ulrich is about to walk out of the bathroom and kick my ass again?”
“He’s not here,” I grumble, taking a long sip of my coffee.
“No?” he questions, sliding on to the barstool next to me. The bartender walks over and places a beer in front of Everett.
“Thanks, Blake, but can I actually get a Coke instead. Not drinking tonight.”
The bartender nods and turns to grab the soda, placing the beer to the side.
“Is he coming to join you?” Everett asks.
“Fuck, I hope not. I’m here trying to forget he exists.”
A wide grin breaks across his face. The bartender returns with the drink, and Everett pulls out his wallet and flips it open. A small white piece of paper falls onto the bar when he slides out his card. In the center is a flower drawn with yellow and green crayon.
“For the Coke and whatever she’s drinking. You can leave it open,” he says, sliding his card toward the bartender.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a small piece of paper sitting on the bar top. He picks it up and studies it for a second.
“My nieces like to draw me pictures. This one is a tulip and is supposed to bring me good luck.” His eyes become a little glossy, and his face falls slightly as he slips the tiny drawing back in his billfold and tucks it into his pocket.
“That’s sweet that you keep it in your wallet.”
I’m pretty sure I can hear my ovaries chanting, “Fuck him! Fuck him! Fuck him!” and who could blame them?
He’s sitting here in a backwards hat, black sweatpants, showing me his niece’s art that he’s saved in his wallet like some sort of perfect man, but I should know better.
This is Everett. We didn’t work before, so why would we work now?
“I don’t get to see them often, and it makes me feel like I have them close by.”
“Does that mean you’ve become a big softy since I last saw you?”
Grabbing his glass, he takes a sip and shakes his head. His throat bobs up and down as he swallows.
A distant memory of me telling him to call me if he was ever in town plays in my head, and my heart sinks at the idea that he didn’t.
Everett and I were hardly friends back then.
We were good for one thing, and that was mind-blowing, toe-curling sex.
My cheeks heat as I’m assaulted with a memory of us.
“Can I ask what happened?”
“Huh?”
“Between you and Ulrich,” he clarifies.
“Oh! Let’s see. We started dating a few months ago. He told me he and Monica, his ex, had broken up. I believed him, but then I found out after the game tonight, he lied.”
“Damn,” he says.
“Yeah, it was pretty mortifying getting blindsided by her and her pack of friends after the game.”
“What did he say when you ended things?”
“Nothing yet. I texted him when I got here, and he hasn’t responded.”
“Are you okay?”
“At first I was hurt, but it only took the walk here to get over it and for the anger to settle in. I think I’m more upset about how I found out than about losing him.”
“What do you mean?”
“You would think by now I wouldn’t have to deal with mean girls.
When I was young, I thought that, eventually, that behavior from other girls would stop.
Like we would evolve or something, but apparently we haven’t.
” I take another sip of my coffee. “I’m twenty-nine, and tonight I might as well have been fifteen, being embarrassed by the popular girl in the middle of the high school cafeteria. ”
He nods and sips his Coke.
“And I get it to some extent. She’s hurt because her boyfriend cheated on her with me, and I wouldn’t like me either.
But…” I shake my head. “Calling me a whore and concocting a plan where someone pretended to be my friend just so they could mortify me was a new level of mean girl, and that’s saying a lot because I’ve encountered plenty of Monicas in my life. ”
“You’re not a whore.”
“I know, and I don’t know why I’m venting to you about this. I’m sure you don’t care. Men don’t have to deal with this shit.”
“I care,” he says. “And I think the fight at the end of the game tonight says otherwise. Men deal with that stuff in a different way.”
“Right, men just punch one another and go about their day, while women are over here experiencing full on emotional warfare against one another. It’s definitely the same thing.”
He chuckles.
“Sorry he punched you,” I offer.
“It wasn’t the first fight I’ve been in, and it won’t be my last.” My eyes follow his hand as he rubs it along the hair covering his face, and a memory of him between my legs, peering up at me, assaults me from out of nowhere.
Shit, I need to get it together. It might feel like no time has passed, but it’s been over four years. Raph and I just broke it off, but what I wouldn’t give to let Everett help me forget all about him.
“You got a little bit of drool on your chin,” he says, chuckling and pretending to wipe drool from his.
I grumble at his cockiness, diverting my gaze to one of the TVs hanging above the bar. It’s a replay of his post-game interview.
Looking in Everett’s direction, there’s a noticeable change in his body language. His confidence seems to disappear as he zones in on the television.
We both sit in silence, watching. The clip of him cuts to a group of reporters sitting behind a table. We can’t hear what they’re saying, but the closed captioning on the bottom of the screen shows that one of the men is talking about a possible career ending shoulder injury.
“You mind changing the channel,” he calls to the bartender, who looks up at the screen before nodding and switching it to some other sports channel. An image of Raph leaving the arena hand in hand with Monica flashes on the screen, and my heart sinks.
“Fuck,” he breathes out. “Maybe just turn it off.”
“How perfect.” I look away, trying to hide the embarrassment that’s creeping up my neck and covering my face.
The bartender lifts the remote, and the screen goes black. Sipping from his drink, he turns to face me again.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Don’t be. Want to talk about why you’re here and not out celebrating the big win with your team?”
“Just needed to get my mind off things,” he grumbles, taking another swig of his soda.
“Something to do with that shoulder injury they were talking about?”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Still grumpy, I see. I guess some things never change.”
His jaw ticks, and the look on his face is the same one he gave me all those years ago when we played this little game. Warmth pools low in my belly, and my head floods with another memory of the two of us tangled together between my bed sheets. What it felt like when his tongue would…
He clears his throat, breaking my thoughts.
“You always liked when I was a little grumpy.”
He’s right. I did. I really fucking like it.
His hazel eyes rake over me, and I like the way it feels when he looks at me. I like it more than I know I should.
“You look beautiful,” he says. His cheeks turn a soft shade of pink as he speaks.
“Seems like you’re the one who’s drooling,” I swipe my thumb across my chin, repeating the same gesture he did. Our eyes lock on each other again, and for a moment, the rest of the bar melts away.
Never in a million years did I think I’d be close enough to touch him again, but here I am, sitting at a dive bar and wishing he’d pull me out of it, take me home, and make me forget the night I’ve had.