Chapter 7
The Present
When I get out, I wrap myself in a towel and sit on the edge of my bed, dripping. I stare at my phone. No new messages.
Just silence.
I scroll aimlessly. Social media is a parade of fake smiles and filtered happiness. Engagements. Promotions. Girls I knew in college with babies and husbands and homes.
I have empty bottles and a job that feels like punishment.
And a pain that keeps growing.
I check the time. 4:12 p.m.
Work is in three hours.
I consider calling in sick. I consider quitting entirely. I consider packing a bag and leaving the city with whatever money I have left.
But I don’t move.
I just sit there, towel slipping, legs trembling.
Eventually, I get dressed. Black again. Always black. It’s the only color that feels honest now. A fitted dress with sleeves long enough to cover the bruises I found on my arms this morning.
I don’t know where they came from.
Maybe the bar last night.
Maybe the man before him.
I do my makeup slowly. Not to look good, but to create a mask I can hide behind. The girl in the mirror isn’t pretty.
She’s practiced.
At 6:45, I walk into The Velvet Room.
The lights are low. The music is already pulsing. I hear the bass in my chest before I even step behind the bar.
Jazz is there. She gives me a once-over.
“You look rough.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
She shrugs. “Honesty is all I’ve got.”
She’s wearing glitter on her eyelids and a smirk on her lips. She’s too alive for this place, but she fits anyway.
“You need coffee?” she asks.
“Something stronger.”
She hands me a shot of espresso.
I down it like a shot of tequila.
The night begins like all the others. Drinks. Orders. Laughter that sounds like lies. Men flirt. Women dance. People forget.
I stay busy. I keep my head down. I pretend I’m not drowning. It works for a while.
Until he walks in.
Knox.
His designer clothes screams he doesn’t belong here. Not in this crowd. Not in this noise. He’s wearing black jeans and a leather jacket. Simple. Clean. His presence cuts through the room like a blade.
He doesn’t look at me right away. He moves through the space like he owns it. Like he doesn’t need to announce himself to be noticed.
He sits at the far end of the bar.
Alone.
I hesitate. Then I walk over.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“Whiskey. Neat.”
I pour it. Slide it over.
He doesn’t thank me. He just sips slowly, eyes on the glass.
After a moment, he says, “You look like shit.”
I snort. “You’ve always had a way with women.”
“Truth isn’t supposed to feel nice.”
“I’m aware.”
We fall into silence. The noise of the club fills the gaps.
Finally, he says, “I didn’t come to fight.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To check on you.”
I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”
“I should’ve told you,” he says quietly.
I pause.
After all this time. Months of drowning in faceless bodies, coke, and liquor.
This is what he came here to tell me?
The music fades for a second in my ears. “You knew.”
He nods.
“I figured it was just flirting at first,” he says. “Then I saw them together. Once. Twice. I told him to end it.”
“And then?”
“I stayed out of it.”
“Because it wasn’t your place?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Let me guess,” I continue. “Guy code. Loyalty. Whatever excuse makes it easier to sleep at night.”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“Good.”
He watches me carefully. I feel his eyes like heat on my skin.
“You look like you’re not eating,” he says.
“I’m busy.”
“You look like you haven’t slept in days.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
I slam a bottle down harder than necessary.
He doesn’t flinch.
“I don’t need saving,” I snap.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Then stop playing the hero.”
“I’m not. I just don’t want to watch you destroy yourself.”
“It’s none of your business.”
“I’m making it my business.”
That stops me. I look at him, really look. His jaw is tight. His hands are steady. But his eyes are full of something I can’t name.
Concern?
Regret?
Pity?
I don’t want any of it.
“You’re not who I thought you were,” I whisper.
“And who was I?”
“Someone who didn’t stand by while I fell apart.”
He finishes his drink and stands. “I’ll be back.”
“I don’t need you to be.”
He walks away. And somehow, I feel colder than I did before he came.
The rest of the night blurs.
More drinks.
More fake smiles.
More forgetting.
When I clock out, it’s nearly 3 a.m. I walk outside into the silence of a sleeping city. Knox is waiting by his car.
“I don’t need a ride,” I say.
“I didn’t ask.”
I stand there. He doesn’t move. Neither do I.
Then, for some reason I don’t understand, I walk toward him. I get in the passenger seat. We drive in silence.
His car smells like leather and exotic cologne.
I close my eyes. For a moment, I forget the world.
When he parks outside my apartment, he says nothing.
Neither do I.
I get out.
But before I close the door, I whisper, “Why now?”
He doesn’t answer. I can see in his dark eyes he is battling something I can’t name. He just looks at me like he’s seeing something he wasn’t ready for. I shut the door. Then he drives away.
And I stand in the cold, wondering if maybe, just maybe, someone still sees the girl I used to be.