Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
JADE
The bar is dead tonight.
I wipe down the counter for the third time just so I’ve got something to do. It's almost eleven, and there's been maybe three customers since my shift started. I should appreciate the downtime, but it just feels like the universe is giving me too much space to think. Space I really don’t want.
We’ve had two weeks of therapy. I’m sleeping in the same bed as Devon now, but the invisible wall between us is huge.
It’s been the longest two weeks of my life.
I toss the cloth into the sink and lean against the bar, catching sight of my reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. The lighting in here is shitty, thank God, but I still see it—the fat spilling over my jean’s waistband, the way my shirt pulls tight across my stomach. I look away.
This is what I do now—avoid mirrors. It’s harder to avoid the thoughts that creep in at three AM when Devon's breathing beside me and I'm staring at the ceiling wondering if he's dreaming about her.
About Mila. With her yoga-perfect body and her bronze skin and her fucking audacity.
I pour myself a glass of water and sip it, trying to calm myself. The therapist—Dr. Carlisle—says I need to practice being present. Noticing five things I can see, four I can touch. Grounding techniques for when the madness starts.
The door opens and I straighten automatically, pasting on my customer service smile. It’s a guy in his mid-thirties, maybe. He’s got brown hair that's a little too long, like he forgot to get it cut. His eyes are dark rimmed, like he doesn’t sleep anymore.
I know that feeling.
“The kitchen's closed," I say. "But I can do drinks."
"Just coffee, if you have it."
Huh, that’s surprising. Most men who look like he does tend to ask for the whiskey. But I have coffee. It's been sitting on the warmer for two hours, but he doesn't seem like someone who'll complain about anything.
He takes a seat at the far end of the bar, his body slumping. I pour the coffee and slide it toward him.
"Thanks." He wraps both hands around the mug like he needs the warmth, even though it's July and the AC is barely keeping up.
I sigh.
"Rough night?" he asks after a minute.
I glance over. He's not looking at me—he's staring into his coffee like it might have answers.
"Something like that."
He nods slowly. "Yeah. Me too."
Something about the way he says it makes me hesitate. He’s not fishing for conversation or trying to be charming.
“Do you want to talk about it?"
What am I doing? I'm the bartender, not his therapist. I have my own mess to deal with.
But he looks up, and his eyes are the kind of brown that reminds me of melted chocolate ice cream.
"Probably not. But thanks for asking. Most people don't."
I don't know what to say to that, so I just nod and go back to work.
Well, pretending to work.
I refill his coffee without him asking, and he thanks me again with that same tired half-smile.
"I'm Samuel," he says eventually.
"Jade."
"Nice to meet you, Jade." He takes a sip of coffee. "This isn’t where I planned to end up tonight."
I study him. "Where did you plan to end up?"
He considers this. "Home. Except home doesn't feel much like home anymore."
Holy shit. I know that feeling. Walking through our house, seeing Devon's things, smelling his cologne on the pillows, and feeling like a stranger in my own life.
"I get that," I murmur.
Samuel looks at me then and I feel like he can see inside me. Like he can see past the tired bartender act to the woman underneath who's barely holding herself together.
"You look like you've had one of those weeks," he points out.
I laugh because he’s got no idea how right he is. "Try one of those months."
"Yeah." He nods slowly. “I hear ya.”
I should end the conversation here, but I don't.
"My wife left me," Samuel finally confides. "Eight months ago. I'm still not used to saying it out loud."
Yikes.
"I'm sorry." I wince.
“It happens.” He shrugs one shoulder.
I think about Devon and the reasons we're in therapy, and how I still flinch when he reaches for me sometimes. The reasons I've been staying at Katrina's half the week because our house feels like it’s haunted by fucking Mila.
“Are you okay?” Samuel asks, watching me like he actually cares.
Devon cares, I know he does, but every conversation between us is different now.
With Samuel, there's nothing. No history, no betrayal, no baggage. Just two strangers who owe each other nothing.
"Yeah," I manage.
He finishes his coffee and reaches for his wallet. I wave him off.
"On the house."
"You don't have to—"
"I know. But you look like you needed it."
That half-smile again. "Thank you, Jade."
He stands and pulls on his jacket. I expect him to leave, but he pauses, then pulls a napkin from the dispenser, scribbling something on it.
When he slides it across the bar, I see a phone number and his name in neat scrawl: Samuel.
"In case you ever want to talk," he says. "About the long weeks. Or the months. Or nothing at all."
Then he's gone, the door swinging shut behind him, and I'm left holding a napkin with a stranger's name and number on.
I should throw it away. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him I’m married—but I don’t think he meant it like that. He seemed like he was still in love with his wife. Maybe heartbreak recognizes heartbreak.
Instead, I fold it and slip it into my pocket.
The rest of my shift passes in a blur. I close out the register, wipe down tables, and lock up. The whole time, I'm thinking about the way Samuel looked at me. Like I was a person, not a problem to be solved. Not a wife who needs to be reassured or convinced of anything.
Just... Jade.
I drive to Katrina's instead of home. It's late, almost one AM, but I can't face our bedroom tonight. I can't lie next to Devon and pretend I'm not drowning in the memory of what we used to be.
The lights are off when I let myself in with the spare key. Katrina's asleep on the sofa, the TV casting blue shadows across her face. I grab the blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over her.
She stretches but doesn't wake, and suddenly I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for her.
In the guest room, I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out the napkin. Samuel's handwriting stares back at me.
I don't know why I kept it. I don't know what I'm feeling—guilt, maybe, because misery loves company. Or maybe just because for one split second in time I didn’t feel alone.
Devon loves me. I know he does. But right now, it’s not enough.
I put the napkin in my wallet, behind my driver's license, where I won't have to look at it.
Then I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling until my eyes finally close.