Chapter Twelve
Isla
Despite the warm memories and sounds surrounding me in the bar, a cold draft whispers through my mind—a reminder that my life's warmth has been doused with some cold water. I know I’ll build back up the joy and happiness, but right now… it’s nowhere to be found.
I reach for the top shelf, fingers grazing the chilled bottle. It's slick, almost dangerously so in my grasp, and my heart stops when it slips through my fingers and crashes to the floor as if it’s a poetic echo of the shattering of my own world.
“Shit,” I say under my breath, praying no one hears me as my heart hammers against my ribs. The stinging scent of vodka fills my nose even as it seeps into the grooves of the hardwood, a clear, wasted river of liquid that’ll help everyone else forget their woes, too.
Liam's eyes find mine, his brows knitting together with worry. He’s worked with me long enough to know that things aren’t quite right, but I’m not about to share my humiliation with anyone, not even him.
I wipe up the majority of the mess with a bar towel, knowing I’ll have to do better, then grab the mop.
“Hey, you okay?” Liam asks from a few feet away at the bar, the hum of conversations unable to drown out the sound of worry in his voice.
“I’ll be okay.” That’s just my go-to response any time anyone asks, because I don’t know what else to say. I am not okay, but I don’t want to get fired because I let my personal life interfere with my ability to do my job.
The customer at the end of the bar extends a sympathetic glance my way as I slide his drink across the counter. With every motion, I feel the weight of their gazes, heavy with the knowledge of my public humiliation. Maybe they don’t know, maybe I’m fooling myself, but as my face burns red-hot, I can’t help but feel everyone has seen the video and knows my ex didn’t think I was worth being faithful to. I can't escape the viral betrayal, it’s like a digital ghost haunting every corner of my life.
“Let me help you with that,” Liam says, but I shake my head, forcing a smile that I really don’t feel.
“I've got it.” I can clean this mess. I can’t clean up my life. At least this brings some cold comfort. I mop up the spill, then realize I need to get under the lip of the counter and make my way in with a towel, my movements mechanical.
The night drags on, each moment a reminder of how far off course my life has veered. Walker, usually so composed and authoritative, doesn’t even seem to notice my inability to function like a normal human. It’s like my hands have given up on life, and my body is too checked out to care. I serve a whiskey sour, but the glass tips, sloshing over the rim and onto a patron's lap.
“I’m so sorry!” I gasp as my face flushes hotter than the surface of the sun.
“Accidents happen,” the soaked customer says, waving off my apologies with a forced chuckle as I offer him a towel to clean up with. Walker's eyes meet mine from across the room, but he says nothing, just gives a subtle nod that feels like mercy. I make another whiskey sour, my movements slow and careful. This time, no accident happens, and I breathe a sigh of relief as I step between the bar and the floor so I can make my way out to the tables to grab another order from a couple in a booth.
As I’m walking, I feel my foot slide on a slick spot and know, for a terrified instant, that I’m going to fall. Not only am I humiliated by public, viral betrayal, now I’m going to fall in a room full of people watching me. My body catches the edge of the bar with a graceless thud. Pain explodes through my ribs as the edge of the counter keeps all of my weight upright. I’d swear I feel a pop, but I think it was just my spine decompressing. Walker's at my side in an instant, his hand steady on my arm.
“Careful.” His voice is gentle, yet somehow still commands all of my attention. But he doesn't question my clumsy night of disasters. Instead, he seems worried, not upset or annoyed.
“Thanks,” I say, breathing out, clutching the edge of the bar as I try to assess if I’m hurt or not. But I don’t have time to be injured, and my bills won’t wait for me to feel better, so I’ve got to keep on keeping on. I have that cushion after being paid for my ideas, but I want that to be savings. Besides, I don’t want to be home alone with my thoughts and memories. No thank you.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Walker sounds concerned, but I can’t look him in the eyes. I nod my head, trying to take a deep breath to calm myself and feeling a twinge of pain.
“I’m fine. I think I’ll have a vodka,” I say, glancing at Liam, who also seems worried, but he nods and fills the shot glass. While I’m not a fan of drinking on the job, I also know that if I don’t relax and right the course of my night, things will get worse.
He passes me the drink as Walker makes his way behind the bar and pulls Liam aside. I’m watching them out of the corner of my eyes as I down the shot. But the drink that’s supposed to steady my nerves betrays me and a single drop splashes into my eye, stinging and blinding me.
“Ow! Damn it!” I blink, letting the tears wash out my eye as my vision blurs. Laughter bubbles around me—some sympathetic, some not.
“You’re having a bad night.” Walker's voice is tinged with something I can't place. Amusement? Concern? A mix of both?
“That’s an understatement.” I feel the heat from his body pressing in close and somehow feel my body relaxing despite the pain.
“Why don’t you go home and get some rest?” he says, but I shake my head.
“I can’t do that.” But it’s not just the pile of bills that worries me. No, I’m much more afraid of sitting alone in an empty apartment, thinking about what I thought my life would look like… and what it really is.
“Then slow down, take a breath. You're not alone here.” Walker’s soft voice surprises me, but just as quickly, he slips back into the role of boss, leaving me to wonder about the man beneath the suit.
My phone rings and I pull it out of my pocket, my heart sinking as I recognize the number. The last person I want to hear from—Chase. I make a hasty exit toward the back door as I answer.
“Hello?” My voice is steady, even though my heartbeat is not.
“Hey, babe, listen—” His voice, once my favorite sound, now feels like having my skin ripped from my body, one long shred at a time.
“Save it,” I say. To my horror, tears fill my eyes and I try to blink them back. He doesn’t get to make me cry. Never again. “I've heard enough of your lies.” Like promising forever. Like stringing me along with talk of marriage and starting a family. Like telling me he loved me.
“Come on, we can work this out,” he says, but the desperation in his tone only fuels my anger.
“I guess she dumped you?” I let out a sharp, bitter sound that’s almost a laugh. “There’s nothing to work out. You humiliated me, Chase. I don’t want you back.” Why do the words feel like a lie? And it hits me, I don’t want him back. I want the idea of what my life was before I found out the truth back. But I want that to be real, and it never was.
“Please, I—”
“Goodbye, Chase.” I cut him off, pressing end button with a force that makes the screen distort.
I shove the device back into my pocket and hurry toward the lady’s room, walking past people with a single-minded focus. Once inside, I lock myself in a stall and let the tears come, hot and fast. I hate that he still has the power to hurt me like this.
Minutes tick by—or maybe it's seconds; time blurs when you're trying to piece yourself back together. A deep breath, then another. Leaving the stall, I get a look at myself in the mirror and see I look as awful as I feel.
I swipe at my eyes, refusing to let them betray me any further. Fixing my makeup with practiced hands, I transform the evidence of my broken heart into something resembling composure.
“Get it together,” I say to my reflection before stepping out of the bathroom.
The night is in full swing, with people pouring in the door. I slide behind the bar, the familiar motions of pouring and mixing drinks offering a semblance of normalcy. Then Walker is there, his presence tugging at me like two magnets pulling together.
“Is everything okay?” His voice is a low rumble, his usually unreadable features betraying his worry.
His elbow brushes against mine, an innocent touch that sends unexpected heat spiraling through me. My breath catches in my throat, trapped by the sudden intensity of his gaze.
“I'll be okay,” I whisper after a second too long, hoping my voice doesn't tremble as much as my insides.
“Let me know if you need anything.” His words are simple, but they wrap around me like my favorite warm blanket, offering a comfort I didn’t expect from him.
“Thanks.” I manage a small smile, grateful that he’s here.
With renewed determination, I turn back to the customers, pouring their poisons with a steadier hand. Each drink I make puts more distance between me and my past. Each nod of satisfaction from Walker, a tiny stitch mending the tear in my world.
And when the bar is empty and all the closing tasks are done, I’m left wondering how I made it through without being fired. Maybe I do have a little luck, after all. I doubt it, but maybe. As I make my way to my old beater of a car, my phone rings. I wave to Liam, who nods at me. I catch sight of Walker, who’s making sure I get to my vehicle safely. Our eyes meet and warmth fills my chest, spreading into my stomach and up my neck and face.
*
The sterile glow of my desk lamp washes over the scattered textbooks and papers, each equation a blurry maze of numbers and symbols that I just can’t figure out. I shift on the bed, drawing my knees up to support the heavy textbook of advanced calculus, my fingers tracing the questions as if they hold the key to more than just passing grades.
“Focus.” I command myself, pushing aside the image of Chase taking that girl into a room, his hand at her lower back, the memory clouding my concentration.
And as I push him away, the problems start to make sense. And I begin to trust myself. Every answer typed into the test on my laptop feels like another brick in the fortress I'm rebuilding around my heart. I am not the broken girl he left behind.
“His betrayal will not define me or my worth,” I whisper into the silence of my room. What he did… that’s on him. What I do… that’s on me. And I’m going to succeed.
And when I finally complete the test, I feel a spark of pride. I've conquered this test tonight; Tomorrow, I can work on conquering the pain within.
The shower welcomes me with a scalding cascading of water, drowning out the world. After adjusting the temperature, I lower my body to the ceramic tub, the warmth washing away the facade I've upheld all day. Here, in this steamy space, I'm not the bartender or the student—I'm just me, raw and unguarded.
Tears blend with water, indistinguishable on my face, as I wrap my arms around my shins. My chin rests on my knees, and I let it all out—the hurt, the betrayal, the anger. The droplets pelt my back and head, the warmth soothing some of my aches. I wish it could wash it all away.
“I’m strong enough to get through this,” I whisper to myself.
And it's true. Chase's cheating was a crushing blow, but he didn’t break me. It's his shame to bear, his mistake that marked the end of us—not mine. I was a good girlfriend.
I cling to the flicker of relief in the ocean of agony inside; at least I hadn't given him everything . No, I’d been careful not to sleep with him, and now, I’m glad I didn’t. I’d be so much more upset if I waited, then gave myself to him, only to have him cheat then.
“Maybe other guys will cheat,” I whisper, my throat feeling like I’ve swallowed shards of broken glass, “but not all men are like him.”
And as the water slowly turns lukewarm, a chill creeps in, and I rise. I stand tall, the remnants of my breakdown spiraling down the drain. I flinch as my ribs ache, but I try to ignore the pain
“It’s time to move on. I’m done wasting time, tears, or emotion on him,” I say to my reflection, my eyes red but the set of my jaw is resolute. The mirror is foggy, but the determination in my expression is unmistakable.
I'll face tomorrow – and every day that follows - head-on, because no matter what, I refuse to let Chase—or anyone—determine my worth.
The sheets are cool against my skin, but I still somehow feel sweaty and uncomfortable. I toss and turn, unable to find a position that eases the tightness in my chest and doesn’t hurt. My mind refuses to let go of Walker's image and the other moment from tonight that I’d shoved into the back of my thoughts in an effort to not smile. The way his jaw clenched when he issued that command to Cara, his authority absolute, sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
“Pull your weight, Cara,” he had said, his voice firm but not unkind. “No one gets by on just charm here.”
She looked like he’d slapped her. Her mouth snapped shut, her flirtatious act crumbling under his gaze. I couldn't help the flash of guilty pleasure at seeing her taken down a notch.
I roll onto my back, staring into the darkness. My thoughts drift to Walker's unexpected softness when our eyes met. There's something there, a depth I haven't seen in anyone else. It's as if he sees through the chaos of the bar, through the front I've built, right to the core of me.
As I think about him, my heart races with anticipation. Anticipation of what, I don’t know.
Sleep finally claims me, and with it comes a dream that confuses my poor heart. Walker's there, larger than life. His arms encircle me, pulling me close until we’re chest to chest and I’m captive in his warmth. The scent of him, a mix of woodsy cologne and something undeniably male, fills my senses.
“Let go,” he growls, his tongue tracing the shell of my ear. His breath is hot against my neck, sending ripples of heat coursing through me.
In the safety of the dream, I do. I melt into him, allowing his strength to support me. His hands roam over my back, strong and sure, as if he knows my body better than I do. His touch ignites a fire in me that I've never felt before, something raw and insistent.
“Are you ready?” he asks, his voice a low growl that vibrates through me.
“For what?” My voice is breathless, my body responding to his nearness with a deep need that alarms and excites me.
“Everything,” he says, and his lips find mine in a kiss that seals my fate.
It's a kiss of pent-up desire. It's tender yet demanding, as if he's claiming me for his own. And in this moment, in this dream, I am his.
But it's more than that. There's a sense of readiness within me, an acknowledgment that I'm on the edge of something possibly amazing. Something that could heal the wounds in me… or tear open new ones.
“I’m ready.” I breathe out against his lips, surrendering to the sensation, to the overwhelming certainty that, with him, I’m ready for anything. Anything .
An insistent banging pulls me out of the dream and Walker's safe embrace. Groggy and disoriented, I squint at the intrusive sunlight spilling through my window, painting golden streaks across my rumpled blankets.
The knocking persists, and with a weary groan, I roll out of bed, my feet hating every step on the cold, hardwood floor. I feel like I haven’t gotten any sleep at all. The pain didn’t help things.
I approach the door. Peering through the peephole, I spot Amber's impatient figure, her hand lifted to knock again. I’m happy to see my best friend, but couldn’t she have let me sleep a little longer? I pull open the door, and she walks in past me, her frustration rolling off her in waves.
“You're not answering your phone,” she says the words exploding out of as if she was really scared.
I rub the sleep from my eyes, still trying to process being awake and having company. “It's like five a.m., Amber.”
She plants her hands on her hips and stares at me as if not sure if I’m joking. “It's ten in the morning, and I brought you breakfast.” Bringing her hand from behind her back, she thrusts a brown paper bag into my hands, the aroma of bacon and eggs wafting up to greet me.
As we settle at the kitchen table, the comforting scent of familiar food does little to ease the tightness in my chest. Amber watches me with sympathetic eyes as I take a small bite of a pancake drenched in syrup.
“I'm sorry for breaking it to you like that,” she says, a hint of regret in her voice. “I was just so mad at him.”
“I'm grateful you told me, to be honest,” I say as I poke a bite of egg with my fork. Her sideways glance meets my face as if she’s searching for signs of anger or resentment. There is none and I see her shoulders drop an inch in relief.
“Word around town is that you punched him in the nose,” she teases, trying to lighten the mood.
My fingers instinctively curl, recalling the satisfying crunch and sharp pain that followed. I’d escaped without even a bruise after icing my knuckles right away. “Yeah, I’m hoping he doesn’t press charges.” The memory of his shocked expression bringing a smile of satisfaction to my lips.
Amber chuckles. “He permanently revokes his man card if he does.”
Shaking my head, I can’t agree with her. “Domestic violence can happen to men, too.” It's a sobering thought amidst our laughter, but the truth remains—no one should endure the torment of betrayal or physical harm, regardless of gender.
“Still,” Amber says, a sly grin spreading across her face, “seeing him clutch his bleeding nose must've been a sight.”
I can't help the small smirk tugging at my lips. Maybe it was wrong, but in that heated moment, it felt like payback for the emotional wreckage he left behind.
We laugh and talk, the topic of conversation drifting from the past to the present to the future, and when she’s finally ready to go, I realize I feel a lot better.
*
I stand in the doorway, watching Amber's retreating figure. A lingering silence settles around me, but the expected sadness doesn’t follow. I turn back into the room, my gaze drifting to the floor where a vase of orchids brightens the space.
“Secret admirer?” Amber's playful, teasing voice echoes in my memory.
I study the vase—clear glass with smooth curves that cradle the vibrant blooms. The petals are a soft mix of purple, pink, and white and they make my heart dance. The flowers exude a subtle fragrance, delicate yet present, bringing a sense of serenity my world turned upside down.
Chase never would have sent me flowers; this kind of gift speaks a language he never understood. But I was willing to live without flowers, because he was perfect in every other way.
“Whoever sent you those,” Amber said with a smile, “he's a keeper.”
I pick up the card nestled among the stems, the paper crisp between my fingers. Unfolding it, I again read the message written in a neat, confident hand. Hard times pass and better comes along. You're going to be happy.
Amber joked that they sounded like a threat, but I didn’t hear that. No, the words resonate deep in my chest, bringing a sense of calm and hope.
I clutch the note, pressing it to my heart for a moment before placing it safely on the counter. Whoever sent this has suffered, understands the ebb and flow of pain, and the courage it takes to face another day. My pulse quickens at the thought of someone reaching out through this simple act of kindness.
“Thank you,” I whisper to the empty room, to the unknown sender, to the universe that might be trying to lift me up.
I rise, the orchids cradled in the crook of my arm as I search for a spot for them. They deserve sunlight, a chance to thrive and silently encourage me every day moving forward. I place them on the windowsill, touching a velvety petal as the morning rays cast a warm glow over their leaves.
“Hard times pass,” I whisper, letting the words seep into every fiber of my being. “And better comes along.”
My alarm sounds, the sound reminding me I need to get ready for work. With newfound determination, I start to gather my things, ready to face whatever challenges the day holds.
“Better comes along,” I say once more. And as I say the words, the image of Walker’s soft smile and tender look of concern fills my mind, as well as the less PG images of my dream last night. My cheeks flush red, and I let go of the past and start moving toward my future.