Chapter 12
When Sarah’s tipsy voice rings across the bar, I nearly inhale my old fashioned, the bourbon blazing a trail through my nasal passages that makes my eyes water and my chest heave.
Wait. Did I hear that right? The same Sarah who once refused to sneak into R-rated movies, who organized study groups instead of going to parties, who once lectured me for twenty minutes about respecting curfew is now volunteering herself for a casual hookup?
Four years in New York have clearly worked some kind of alchemy on her. My Sarah—not that she’s been mine for years—somehow both achingly familiar and utterly unrecognizable, that sudden boldness striking a spark of something dark and possessive low in my chest.
The guy she’s propositioning, decent looking but far too much of a dude for Sarah, alternates between stunned and thrilled. Nervous laughter spills out of him as he rakes a hand through his over-gelled hair, his friends elbowing each other with smug little grins that set my molars grinding.
Swaying like a wind chime in the mountain breeze, Sarah plants her feet wide, crossing her arms over her chest as she turns to Wendy with exaggerated triumph.
“Told ya,” she declares, jabbing one finger against her temple with such force she nearly topples sideways. “Always the same thing”—a hiccup interrupts her speech—“on their minds.”
Caught between Sarah and the table of eager wolves, poor Wendy shifts from foot to foot, her expression flickering between amusement and alarm.
Her eyes dart from Sarah’s flushed face to the guys at the table and back again, lips pressed tightly like she’s trying to trap either laughter or concern behind them.
“So, can I get your number?” The dude pushes up from his chair, eagerness leaking from every pore as he scrambles for his phone. I know that look far too well. And he is not getting lucky. Not if I have anything to say about it
Downing the last of my bourbon, I slide off my stool and cross the sticky floor in five determined strides. “Absolutely not,” I say, planting myself between Sarah and her newfound admirer. “She’s with me.”
His posture shifts, enthusiasm curdling into challenge as he juts out his chest. “Dude, what’s your problem?” His shoulders set beneath the button-down, and his tone drips with hostility.
As I roll up the sleeves of my shirt, a wave of something hot and fierce—something I have no right to feel after four years—surges through my chest. Though violence isn’t usually my style, the thought of this stranger taking advantage of her current state pisses me off to no end. I’ll put him down if I have to.
With a glare that must convey my willingness to end his entire existence, I watch his expression shift from confrontational to uncertain.
His friends urge him to sit down.
“Whoa, man, chill.” Blinking rapidly, he raises both hands in surrender, tough-guy act dissolving faster than sugar in hot coffee. “No need to get aggressive.” With impressive swiftness, he drops back into his chair, suddenly fascinated by the label on his beer bottle.
Behind me, Sarah lets out a sound of pure outrage. When I turn, her flushed face is twisted into a scowl, mascara smudged beneath eyes that still blaze with fury. “Who the hell do you think you are to”—a hiccup interrupts—“ruin my fun like that?” Another hiccup follows.
“I think you’ve had one too many,” I say softly, curling gentle fingers around her forearm to steady her swaying body.
Her skin feels exactly as I remember—impossibly soft, warm against my palm.
“I’m perfectly fine!” She huffs dramatically, a stray blonde curl dancing across her forehead as she tries to wrench free of my grip. The sudden movement nearly sends her into a neighboring table, her heel snagging on an uneven floorboard.
“Sure you are,” I mutter, tightening my hold just enough to keep her vertical while guiding her toward the exit.
Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Wendy’s knowing look, her slight nod telling me to get Sarah home safe, and I’m left wondering if she knows about our past.
Before we can escape, Amanda materializes in our path like she always does, her posture somehow even more rigid beneath the bar’s dim lights. “Where are you going?” she says, looking rather displeased.
“I’m taking Sarah home.”
“Amanda!” Sarah brightens instantly, lunging forward to grab our coworker’s arm with drunken accuracy. Her fingers drift down Amanda’s sleeve in a clumsy caress before she pitches forward dangerously, forcing me to catch her around the waist.
With a look of absolute revulsion, Amanda yanks her arm back as if she touched slime.
“Help me get rid of this guy, will ya?” Sarah slurs, loud enough for half the bar to hear, jabbing a thumb in my direction.
Amanda’s expression shifts from disgust to outright offense, and I steer Sarah toward the exit before workplace relations can deteriorate beyond repair.
Despite her slurred protests and half-hearted attempts to dig in her heels, I muscle her through the crowd.
By tomorrow’s sunrise, this whole mortifying episode will be nothing more than a blur drifting somewhere behind her throbbing temples.
We’re halfway down the block when she grumbles, “I can walk by myself.”
Her legs fumble beneath her, ankles wobbling in those heels, but I don’t let her fall. “I’m sure you’ll thank me for this tomorrow.”
The cool night breeze feels great against my warm face. That guy really got my blood boiling back there.
“I don’t need a knight in shining armor.” Every other word slurs together, her vowels stretching like a mother’s baby talk.
“Maybe not,” I say, tightening my hold as we near the apartment building, “but you need sleep. Especially if you want to be functional at the anniversary party this Friday.” I glance down at her, searching her face. “Where are your keys?”
A mischievous grin spreads across her face, and she tries her best to look at me, but her eyes wander all over the place—the streetlamp, a parked car, the moon. “They’re in a secret place,” she says.
“How much did you have to drink?”
“That’s”—she twitches with another hiccup—“nonya...”
Steadying her by the arm, I sigh. “Sarah, come on. Where are they?”
“Nonya business!” she shouts, the words bursting out before dissolving into hysterical laughter that earns us a few curious looks from passing pedestrians.
Time to switch tactics. “Can you please give me your keys?” At this point, I might as well drop to my knees and beg.
She twirls in a slow circle while I keep her balanced, arms outstretched like she’s performing some drunken ballet. “Why don’t you search me?”
I lift an eyebrow and draw in a steadying breath.
What am I supposed to do with her? This is the first time I’ve ever seen her drunk.
She was always against it at house parties, preaching about preserving her brain cells like it was a sacred duty, like it mattered more than being one of the cool kids.
And because of that, I’d ended up drinking two of everything.
My idiot friends had made sure of it. I step closer and ask, “Seriously. Where are your keys?”
“You’re getting warmer.” She whispers like we’re playing some drunken game of hide-and-seek, leaning in until I catch the faint scent of gin and lime.
I reach for her bag at her waist, but she hides it behind her back with surprising speed.
“C’mon, Sarah.”
She giggles. “Much warmer.”
I envelop her with both arms so she can’t move and slip my hand inside her purse.
“Not fair,” she protests.
My fingers brush the cold metal of her keys, and I pull them out, locking eyes with her in the process.
Her teasing smile falters, replaced by a shaky breath.
I can practically taste the gin and tonic as I imagine kissing her.
But she’d never forgive me if I did, and even though she’s drunk, I’m not willing to risk her wrath.
So instead, I take her all in. She’s as beautiful as ever, blonde hair falling loose around her flushed face, lips parted, and I find my self wishing she’d verbalize permission to kiss her.
But it’s just my wishful thinking as and she slurs something about keeping my hungry eyes to myself, which makes me laugh, and we trudge along to our apartment building.
With her wobbly steps, it’ll take us forever to reach the second floor, so I scoop her off the ground and carry her to her apartment door. She’s as light as a feather. Does she even eat anything?
Her head rests against my shoulder when she says, “So, Mr. Runaway Man, why did you go into marketing, anyway?” Her tone is unguarded, curious, stripped of the armor she’s worn since the interview. “You used to roll your eyes every time I talked about my dreams.”
The question catches me off guard, but now’s not the time for that conversation. “Another time,” I say quietly, unlocking her door.
“Put me down.” Her hands push halfheartedly against my chest as we enter. “I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own.”
“I know you are.” I carry her to the bedroom. “But this is faster.”
Setting her gently on the bed, she fixes me with a look that’s both defiant and drowsy, blue eyes struggling to focus. “I’m fine,” she says, even as her eyelids start to droop.
“Of course you are.” Kneeling, I slip off her shoes and set them beside the nightstand.
Then I tuck her beneath the blanket. She shifts toward me, breath coming quick and shallow, and I force myself to step back, even as my eyes linger far longer than they should. How did we end up here?
My chest tightens as memories rush in—her laugh, her fiery determination, the way she used to look at me like I was her entire world.
There’s so much I want to tell her, but I don’t think she’s ready to hear it.
I’m afraid she’ll hate me even more if I reveal the truth of what happened on that fateful day four years ago.
I wanted her to have a bright future, and it never occurred to me she’d be back in Maplewood Springs—although a part of me has always hoped for it.
Back then, I saw no other way than to break it off.
If only I had been smarter about how I went about it. ..
She stirs again, and I lean in to check on her.
Her hand flings out and smacks me square in the face.
“Ow.” Well...I guess I deserved that.
I adjust the blanket one last time and wedge the extra pillows behind her, making sure she stays on her side. Then I head to the kitchen, dig a bucket out from beneath the sink, and set it beside her bed, just in case.
Pausing in the doorway, I glance back at her one more time. She looks so peaceful, like she’s lost in some sweet dream, even though I’m certain there’s a storm of resentment buried deep down.
“Good night,” I whisper, closing the door behind me.
Back in my apartment, sleep won’t come. Sleepless nights have become my constant companions since the interview. I still can’t believe what I saw when her application landed in front of me.
I wish this awkwardness would end, but I’m afraid that trying to explain myself will only worsen it—and I couldn’t handle losing her again.