Chapter 38Victor
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Victor
"Where's Olivia tonight?" I ask, hands shoved in my coat pockets as we stroll down Main Street, the glow of Christmas lights making the snow glint like a kid’s winter fantasy.
"She's over at Samantha's. Perfect timing for a sleepover," Avery replies, her breath forming clouds that twist through the crisp air.
The street's alive with twinkling lights, strung from lamppost to lamppost, casting a warm hue on the frosted sidewalks. I can't help but feel a tug at the corners of my heart—it's like stepping into one of those snow globes. Never had a place that lit up like this around the holidays; never had a place to call home during them either.
"Hey," Avery nudges me out of my thoughts, "why'd you postpone the development? Weren't you worried about your investors backing out?"
I stop walking, turn to face her. "It was a risk worth taking," I admit, looking at the small smile tugging at her lips. "I realized I've been barreling through life, not listening. You challenging me... it made me second guess. Maybe I don't have all the answers."
"Thank you," she says softly, and we share a smile that feels like it bridges miles of misunderstanding between us. Just for a moment, the chilly distance I'm so used to seems a little less daunting.
"Let's duck in here for a bit," Avery suggests, nodding towards an establishment further up the street. The sign above the door reads "The Muse" in looping script, backlit by soft amber light that spills onto the snow-dusted sidewalk.
"Sure," I agree, curiosity piqued as we push through the heavy wooden door.
Inside, the atmosphere wraps around us like a well-worn leather jacket—comforting, familiar. There's one long polished bar, its surface gleaming under the low-hanging lights, bottles of every conceivable color and shape lined up like sentinels behind it. Tables are scattered across the room on the other side, some occupied with patrons lost in quiet conversation or laughter.
"Johnny!" Avery calls out with a beautiful smile as we approach the bar.
"Ah, Avery! Look at you," an older man greets her, his voice rich with Italian cadence. Johnny's got that silver-fox thing going on, hair swept back, lines around his eyes from years of smiles. He wipes his hands on a cloth before looking over to me, his brow furrowing in surprise. "And Victor Stone? Now this is unexpected."
"Trying to bury the hatchet," Avery replies smoothly, leaning against the bar. "Got any drinks to help with that?"
Johnny's smile reappears, warm and knowing. "I might have just the thing," he answers, turning to grab a couple of glasses.
Avery guides me to a quiet table in the back and we take a seat. It isn't long before Johnny returns, a tray in hand, balanced like a pro. Two glasses sit on it, the liquid inside a vibrant orange that seems to capture the glow of the bar's lights. He sets them down before us with the care of a curator placing a masterpiece on display.
"Negroni Sbagliato," he announces, his accent turning the name into music. "A classic twist on the Negroni. Sparkling wine instead of gin—for celebration, yes? To new beginnings and to finding peace." His eyes twinkle, as if he's sharing a secret with the universe.
"Thank you, Johnny," Avery says, her words genuine as she take the glass.
I lift my own, nodding at Johnny. "Appreciate it." The citrus aroma teases my senses, promising something bitter but sweet—like this truce we're attempting .
Once we're alone again, I take a sip, letting the bubbles dance on my tongue. There's comfort in the familiar bitterness, a reminder that not all surprises are unwelcome.
"So, Thanksgiving's around the corner," Avery starts, setting the glass back down with a soft clink. "Got any plans?"
I shift in my seat, a hand running through my hair-a nervous habit. "Used to get together with the guys—Roman, Lawrence, Sebastian. We haven't set anything in for this year, though." I pause. "I sort of thought I'd be knee deep in construction dirt by this time."
"Sounds like a tradition worth keeping," she encourages.
I give her a half-smile as I notice how her brown eyes catch the dim lighting. "What about you? What's your Thanksgiving look like?"
"Olivia and I keep it simple. Just a little dinner, the two of us." I can almost picture it as she says the words. The thought warms me, picturing the two of them lit up with holiday excitement.
"Family coming to join you?" I ask, hoping to show that I'm genuinely interested in her answer.
"Family's just... Olivia and me."
I feel a pang of sympathy as she says the words.
"My father died of cancer when I was young. My mother drank herself to death out of grief not long after. My grandparents took me in. But, they passed away soon after I moved out."
"Sorry to hear that," I say, my voice low.
"Life deals its hands," she replies with a shrug, forcing a smile. "We play the cards we're given, right?"
"Right," I echo, lifting my drink in a quiet salute before taking another sip. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry," I add, realizing my error. I'm finding it hard not to ask Avery questions. I want to get to know her and for the first time since we met, it feels like she's opening up.
She shakes her head. "It's okay. Maybe it's something we can connect over—the broken homes, I mean." She looks at me, her brown eyes searching mine.
"Yeah, maybe."
"Can I ask—what drew you to development work?" She leans forward, her elbows on the table. "I'll admit that I'm curious about the man behind the starched suits and business plans."
I give her a small smile and shrug, swirling the remnants of my drink in the glass. "To be honest, I don't know for sure. Maybe... it's because I've never really had a home that stayed a home. So, I figured if I couldn't have one, I'd build them for others."
My admission hangs between us, earnest and unexpectedly vulnerable.
We sit in silence for a moment longer, neither of us knowing what else to say. I glance at my watch and nod toward our empty glasses, anxious to break the awkward quiet. "I should get this," I say, standing to settle the tab with Johnny at the bar.
"Thanks, Victor," Avery says as I return. I help Avery back into her coat.
"Anytime," I reply, trying to seem at ease again, but I'm never at ease around Avery.
As we walk to the door, Johnny comes over, wiping his hands on a cloth. "Remember, ragazzi," he says with a warmth that only years of pouring drinks and listening to stories can bring, "finding common ground—it's like making good coffee. Takes patience, the right touch, and a willingness to try again if it's not perfect the first time."
"Thanks, Johnny," Avery says, smiling at the old wisdom dressed up in simplicity.
"Goodnight, Johnny," I add with a nod.
We step outside and the cold hits us like a splash of icy water, sobering and sharp. Avery shivers beside me, and I resist the urge to drape an arm around her shoulders. Instead, I stuff my hands into my coat pockets and lead the way down the frosted sidewalk.
"Looks like they're getting ready for the season," her breath forming little clouds as she points at the gleaming outside rink ahead, surrounded by twinkling holiday lights.
I follow her gaze. "You know, we're due for another try on the ice."
"Are we now?" she teases. "Who says you get another chance?" She raises an eyebrow, goading me .
I turn to face her. My finger brushes the underside of her chin and I know her shiver is from my touch and not the cold. "I do," I reply.
"And, why's that?" Her tone is softer now.
"Because, I always get what I want."