Chapter 2 #3
His voice comes through in a deep laugh, the ones that start in the depths of your belly, like it did on Monday. I’m met with the thrill of knowing I can cause this again.
He leans forward, his strong forearms braced on the bar. I scoot closer, mirroring his challenge.
His hand stretches out, and his fingers curl inwards repeatedly.
“Go ahead,” he encourages, ready to take it. “Keep ‘em coming.”
“You look like a bleached version of Justin Bieber’s Baby era.”
Another deep, charming laugh escapes him. I’m spellbound.
He takes a beat, the space between our faces smaller than reason. We share a quiet smile. The noise around us fades.
“Didn’t think I’d see you again.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t.”
“Ouch.” He brings a hand to his chest, mock-wounded.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t take it personally. We both know your charming personality would’ve made this part harder.”
“Make which part harder?” he asks with a smirk.
“The part where I remember I have goals that include no distractions. A promotion. A plan to reinvent myself.”
“Ah. And I’m too much of a detour.”
I nod.
“Now I understand why you ran off on Monday.”
“I didn’t run,” I argue. “I strategically removed myself from the situation.”
“You left so fast, I thought I’d imagined the whole thing.”
That’d probably be for the best. We’re still inches apart, and I’m lacking words because, who am I kidding? I totally ran.
He tilts his head towards my ear and whispers.
“You’re something else, Julia Thomas.”
I’m suddenly aware it’s been months since I’ve been this close to a man. My skin buzzes.
His smell is intoxicating. How weird would it be to take a deep breath? He doesn’t stay long enough for me to decipher his manly fragrance.
“Should I take that as a compliment?” I tease.
His eyebrow raises, and he turns to grab a fresh glass with ice. He reaches for the same bottle of whiskey Tony served on Monday, and his black t-shirt rides up enough to give me a glimpse of smooth, tanned skin.
He comes back and pours the dark brown liquid tauntingly slowly.
“I guess you’ll never know,” he says, sliding the drink over. “This one’s on me.”
I open my mouth to complain, but he’s being yelled over to the other side of the bar.
“Duty calls,” he mutters, adjusting his wig. He’s trying to make me laugh, to ease the tension buzzing between us. And I’m thankful, because it works.
“Go get ‘em, Justin.”
I return to the table like nothing happened—like I haven’t flirted with Joshua Harrison, again, blonde bartender wig and all.
He stays behind the bar the rest of the time we’re here, which helps me stay focused on Claire. She gives me a questioning look, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’m now holding liquor or because she witnessed my interaction with pop-star wannabe.
She doesn’t mention it, and instead, the conversation flows into something normal. She comes from a big family––four brothers and endless stories.
Still, I can’t help stealing glances at him. And most times, I find he’s already looking. Each look is a pull, a spark, an unspoken witty comment.
But also, a reminder: it needs to stay like this. With distance between us. My lifeline can’t stretch out anymore.
The sunlight streaming in through the window wakes me up. I look around, confused.
Sun?
I get up to check, and sure enough, there’s some light peeking through the clouds.
The clock on my nightstand reads twelve p.m. My stomach rumbles and my head throbs. If I want to survive, I need groceries.
I throw on some sweatpants and a light jacket. My keys are on the counter, but my wallet is nowhere to be seen.
I check the clothes I was wearing the night before. Nothing.
I must’ve left it at the bar.
“Fuck.”
In a desperate—and hungover—attempt to avoid going into the city, I look up The Anchor’s number and call.
Tony picks up after a few rings.
“Hi! This is the American girl that––”
“Oh! Ms. Julia, I bet I know why you’re calling.”
He knows my name?
“Please tell me I left my wallet there.”
He chuckles. “It’s here. You left it in your booth.”
“Thank you,” I sigh, relieved. “Could you keep it safe? I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”
“Of course, Ms. Julia.”
The rest of the weekend goes by way too fast. I force myself to unpack, making a half-hearted attempt to settle in. I’m finishing dinner when Emma calls to report on all the things I’m missing out on back home.
My dad has taken up clay sculpting as his newest hobby and is driving my mom crazy in the process. He’s working on a miniature Polaroid camera so that I can put it in my apartment when I get back.
My heart clenches at the thought.
I’ve been working on my pitch all morning—or at least staring at my screen, pretending while mentally complaining about it.
The theme feels like a cruel joke from the universe.
Summer love? More like use and dispose. Whoever buys this is as na?ve as I once was.
Sport sets, two-linen pieces, swimwear, and even underwear.
All perfectly matched for him and her. The designs are fine.
I could be on board if I didn’t have to sell it to couples whose future is probably destined to go up in flames. Just like mine did.
I still have to pick up my wallet, so I make a pit stop during lunch. The bar is empty—too late for British lunch and too early for the end-of-the-workday rush hour.
“How much did my new hire give you to drink?” Tony chuckles when he spots me.
“Apparently enough for me to forget my only ID in a foreign country,” I joke.
He opens a drawer in front of him and pulls out my wallet.
“Thank you,” I say, clutching it to my chest.
“I also have this for you…”
He hands me a folded piece of paper.
I frown. Did we not pay for the bill? “What’s this?”
He shrugs.
I unfold the paper. It’s a handwritten note—signed by none other than Joshua Harrison.