Chapter 8
Idon’t remember falling asleep. I just remember the nightmares. And the sweat. And the sound of my own voice gasping in the dark like I was drowning in nothing.
I sit up fast, heart racing, breath shallow, soaked in panic. My sheets are tangled around my legs. My pillow is wet. I don’t know if it’s from tears or sweat or both.
The sun hasn’t risen yet. It’s that strange gray between night and morning where the world feels like it’s waiting to exhale. I climb out of bed and stumble to the bathroom. My hands shake as I turn on the faucet. I splash water on my face until the cold stings.
I look in the mirror and see a stranger. Eyes dull. Skin pale. Hair stringy and lifeless. In bad need of a trim. I look like I’ve been sick for years and just woke up.
I sit on the edge of the tub and press my forehead to my knees. I need to pull myself together. The silence of the apartment is louder than any club. And it’s worse now that I know someone from my past sees me.
Knox.
His name is a weight in my chest.
Why did he show up?
Why did he care?
Why did it make something in me ache in a way I didn’t expect?
I crawl back into bed and stare at the ceiling. Sleep doesn’t come again.
Just numbness.
By afternoon, I’m dressed and at work early.
The Velvet Room is half-lit, quiet, almost peaceful before the storm of bodies and noise arrives. Jazz is already there, wiping down tables with her headphones in. She doesn’t see me come in, and I let her stay in that moment of peace.
I like seeing people when they don’t know they’re being watched. It’s the only time they’re real.
I go behind the bar, pull out the bottles, start organizing like my life depends on it. Maybe it does. Every motion is a distraction. A delay.
I need to stop thinking.
I make myself a mocktail, citrus and soda, something tart enough to remind me I’m still alive.
The doors open at six. The usual wave of people floods in. Loud, laughing, already half-drunk.
By nine, it’s packed.
The air smells like perfume, cologne, sweat, alcohol, and temptation.
I keep my head down. I pour drinks. I fake smiles. I collect cash.
And then I hear his voice.
Low.
Sharp.
Familiar.
Knox.
Again?
Why is he here?
I look up and find him near the end of the bar. Different jacket. Same calm. Like he belongs everywhere and nowhere.
He nods at me but I don’t return it. Instead, I make my way down slowly.
“What do you want tonight?” I ask without looking at him.
“Just you.”
The words freeze me.
I finally meet his eyes. “Don’t say shit like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a lie and I don’t believe it.”
He studies me.
“You used to.”
His words hit my chest like a sledgehammer. “That was before I learned better.”
He sips the drink I didn’t see him order.
“Why do you keep coming here?”
“You already know, Lana.”
“You’re not here to drink. Or dance. Or hook up.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
“Because this is where you are.”
I stare at him and I know he’s serious.
He’s always serious. And I don’t know what to do with that.
“You think you can fix me?” I ask, voice lower now.
“No.”
That surprises me.
He leans forward slightly. “I don’t think you need fixing.”
I laugh. Quiet, bitter. “That makes one of us.”
“You’re not broken,” he says. “You’re just tired of pretending you’re not.”
That hits somewhere deep and I turn away convincing myself I need air.
I push through the crowd and head outside. The cold hits me hard. I lean against the brick wall and suck in deep breaths like they’re my last.
The door opens behind me. Knox steps out. He stands a few feet away. Doesn’t speak.
Eventually, I say, “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit,” I snap.
“I just don’t like watching you destroy yourself,” he says evenly.
“You think I’m doing this on purpose?”
“No. I think you’re trying to feel better. To make sense of it all. And it’s not working.”
A car honks down the block. Somewhere a siren wails.
“I’m not someone you can save,” I mumble.
“I know.”
“Then stop following me. Stop showing up.”
“You can’t tell me what to do, Lana.”
I turn to him, angry now. “Then what is this? Some guilt thing? You didn’t tell me about Sebastian, so now you’re trying to earn forgiveness?”
“I don’t care about forgiveness.”
“Then what?”
He takes a step closer. “I care about you.”
That word.
Care.
I haven’t heard it in so long from his lips that it feels foreign.
Unreal.
I shake my head. “Don’t.”
He nods once. Doesn’t argue. Just says, “Okay.”
He walks back inside. Leaves me in the cold. And for the first time in weeks, I feel the tears start again.
Not from betrayal. Not from shame. Not because of Sebastian.
For choosing wrong.
And I don’t know how to handle that.