8. Reed
reed
. . .
My fingers are cool beneath the oak bar top as I work, polishing glasses, resetting stools, falling into a rhythm I’ve known for years. My scars itch with every stretch, but I keep my sleeves pulled down, hiding the worst of them.
Routine makes the silence and pain bearable.
Except today, it isn’t silent; Layla is everywhere.
Her sandals softly slap against the wood floors as she paces the bar with her camera in hand, and her blonde hair shimmers in the evening rays coming through the windows.
She’s talking a mile a minute, narrating to the camera, laughing at herself, spinning in small circles to capture every angle.
Hopping onto the edge of the mechanical bull, she caresses the back of it. “This is sooo iconic. I know you bitches wanna sit on a bull and ride.” She slides off, brushing dust from her jeans.
She moves as if she belongs here, like she’s known this bar just as long as I have, and my heart squeezes at the sight of her.
This is my space. The only place I’ve managed to keep steady after everything. And here she is, invading it, filling it, lighting it up like she was made for it. Sunshine bleeding into darkness, I never thought I’d shake.
I catch myself smiling. Ducking my head to pretend to fix some glasses, I hope she doesn’t see and wipe the same glass again, even though it’s spotless.
Eventually, she returns to the bar, her cheeks flushed, blue eyes shining.
“Okay. I think I have a substantial amount to edit, for now. This is… this is perfect, Reed.” She tucks her phone away, smiling brightly.
“I’ll have to get some more footage when I’m back.
I’m heading back home tomorrow, but I’ll text you. ”
“Tomorrow?” The word slips out harsher than I intend it to. “So soon?”
She nods, her lips curving in a gentle apology. “Yeah, I have some brand meetings that can’t be rescheduled. But I’ll be back, I promise.”
I grunt, setting the glass down more forcefully than needed. Her smile softens as her gaze lingers, and her blue eyes follow me as if she’s memorizing me.
And fuck me, I want her to.
The bell above the door rings out, breaking the quiet moment between us. Two women walk in, sunglasses pushed up high on their heads, their voices loud and clear for the calm afternoon. They go directly to the bar, searching the shelves for their desired drink.
As their eyes are scouring the shelves of liquor, two sets of eyes land on me, and once they get a peek at the scar tissue that I can’t hide.
It’s the look I recognize all too well; the twitch of lips, the subtle curl of disgust. Their eyes flick over the scars on my cheek and neck, the ones the flannel can’t conceal.
One of them whispers something behind her hand, and the other smirks.
The familiar burn spreads through my chest and down my arms. I keep my head lowered, my jaw clenched, and my fingers gripping the counter tightly.
Before I can open my mouth, Layla’s voice slices through the air.
“Why the fuck are you staring?”
Both women freeze, blinking at her.
Layla steps closer, chin held high, sunshine replaced by fire. “Seriously. Order your drinks or get the hell out. This isn’t a zoo.”
My eyes meet Layla’s, seeing her fire and her determination to protect someone she barely knows. My heart races, that butterfly sensation fluttering low in my stomach once more.
She turns back to me then, her blue eyes blazing and protective like I’ve never seen before. And for the first time in longer than I can remember, the shame doesn’t feel so suffocating.
Because someone finally stood between me and the world, and it was her.
The women mutter something under their breath, then quickly order, their eyes darting anywhere but at me. I pour without speaking, jaw clenched, sliding the drinks across the counter. They throw cash on the counter and slink off to a corner table, their laughter now hushed.
Layla doesn’t look at them again.
She’s looking at me.
Her eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them, no longer the fire from a moment ago, nor the playful demeanor she usually carries. Just warmth, fierce, and quiet all at once. Like she sees every scar, every fracture, and doesn’t flinch.
I swallow hard, my throat thick. “You didn’t have to…”
“Yes, I did,” she interrupts softly, her voice a gentle contrast to the sharpness she’d just delivered. Her hand brushes the bar top between us, close enough that our fingers almost brush. “Don’t argue with me, Reed. Let me care a little.”
Her words sink in deeper than they should, burrowing into places I’ve kept locked away for years. My chest hurts with it, but it’s not the usual pain; it’s something dangerous.
Something that feels a hell of a lot like hope.
She reaches into her bag, pulls out a slip of paper, and scribbles quickly. When she slides it across the counter, her gold jewelry shimmering beneath the natural light.
“My address,” she says with a half-smile. “Just… to have. In case. Or if you need it. Or, I don’t know, if you wanna write me letters.” She laughs softly, shaking her head at herself.
I stare at the paper, the neat loops of her handwriting blur for a second before my vision clears.
Her address?
A piece of her world is placed willingly into my scarred hands. When my eyes meet hers again, she’s still watching me, eyes wide.
And I don’t know what terrifies me more, how badly I want to keep it, or how impossible it feels to deserve it.
I let the silence hang heavy between us. The crumpled paper sits on the counter as my hand hovers above it, my rough fingers twitching, before I finally give in and slide it toward me.
When I glance up again, she’s grinning at me.
“There,” she says brightly, brushing her hands together as if she’s accomplished something big. “Now, if you ever get tired of brooding in here, you can send me letters. Or, you know, a pizza. I accept both.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Pizza, huh?”
“Obviously.” She leans in closer, resting her chin on her hand, yellow-gold bracelets softly clinking. “Pepperoni with extra cheese, and cheese crust, duh.”
I shake my head, but the warmth in my chest won’t fade. “You talk too much.”
She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “Excuse me, but that’s my brand. Sunshine and sass. You don’t like it?”
I meant to tell her I don’t mind. I like it more than I should. But the words are stuck in my throat. Instead, I settle for something safer.
“It suits you.”
She beams at me anyway, all teeth and fire, like I just gave her a crown.
For the first time in a long, damn time, I don’t feel like my scars are the only thing people notice.