Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
avery
Don’t Let Me Go – Cigarettes After Sex
“What the fuck?”
I have been sifting through my whole sock drawer to find a pair before I head off to work, and every single sock I pick up does not match. How is that possible?
It would be reasonable to assume that I would just wear mismatched socks, but I hate the feeling of different toe seams on my feet.
So, as I scatter all the contents of my drawer on the floor, frustration rises inside me, and I let out a loud groan the longer it takes to search and come up with nothing.
Morgan sticks her head in my room and sees me on the ground as I scavenge through the contents on the floor.
“Uh, Ave, did you finally have that mental slip from sanity we’ve all been worried about?
Or is there a reasonable explanation for why you’re on all fours throwing socks around the room?
” Morgan muses, coming to lean against the door frame, her laughter audible even as she tries to muffle it behind coughs.
“Definitely the sanity one,” I confirm and sit back.
“It was really only a matter of time,” she jokes, coming to sit on the floor across from me with her back leaned against my bed. “But really, what’s going on?”
“I feel like I’m losing it. I did laundry yesterday while you were out, and somehow I’m missing the match to every pair of socks. I can only find one of each kind.” I explain, picking up random socks and showing her.
“What the fuck?” she mirrors my sentiment from earlier.
“I took a nap, and when I went to fold my clothes from the dryer, I didn’t really check. Now they’re missing.”
“Did you check the dryer?” she asks.
“No, Morgan, I just decided to throw out my entire drawer and didn’t check the dryer where I got them from,” I reply sarcastically, rolling my eyes and flinging myself back to starfish on my bedroom floor in the destruction of socks I’ve created.
Suddenly, Morgan breaks out in laughter, and I crack one eye open to stare at her.
“What’s so funny about this situation?” I ask, frustration finally taking over.
“Those losers took them!” she bursts out, bending over with laughter as tears gather in her eyes. “You took his shoelaces, and he took your socks, knowing you can’t not match them!”
Her head is thrown back in laughter, and a chuckle slips out of me. It is actually a good one.
“You know how we should get them back?” she muses, looking at me with a mischievous glint in her eye.
“How?” I ask with one eye closed and my hand thrown dramatically over my head, not ready to let go of the pity party I’m throwing myself.
“We go on a double date,” she suggests, smiling wide at me with a manic look in her eye.
“No,” I answer, leaving no room for argument. From what I know of Morgan, no isn’t an answer she accepts easily. She’s always had a knack for getting me to do things outside my comfort zone.
“Come on, what else do you have to do besides sulk in the house for another weekend?” she prods, hitting my foot with her hand to get me to open my eyes and look at her.
“I’m not sulking,” I groan.
“I’m sorry, I meant pouting,” she snickers and hits my foot again.
“I’m not pouting either.”
“Okay, and what would you call staying inside all weekend and watching back-to-back rom-coms on the couch?”
“Taking care of my mental health, obviously.”
“What would be good for your mental health is getting out and meeting people. Not sitting at home all alone because your ex—maybe not ex-boyfriend—hasn’t reached out since he ate you out like a Thanksgiving meal in his childhood bedroom and told you he was still in love with you.”
“He did not say he was still in love with me.”
“Sure, Jan,” she replies, making a Brady Bunch reference and getting a laugh out of me. It’s something we binge-watched together in high school after diving into older sitcoms.
“I don’t know Morgan, I don’t think I’m ready.”
“You never know if you don’t try, and you can’t not live because you’re scared,” she reasons.
I know she’s right. I can feel the truth in her words and how worried she is about me. The indecision swirls in my head as I sit here.
“I’m just not sure about a date. I don’t think I’m ready to meet someone else.” I hesitate while picking up some socks in front of me and tossing them softly back in the drawer.
“Then just come out, no expectations. Meet him, and if you like him, maybe go out with him again. Or don’t.
I just want you to get out. I hate seeing you sitting here just waiting around for him to be ready,” she states, grabbing my hands and looking into my eyes—her brown ones on my blue.
The socks are scattered around us, but with my best friend in front of me, I feel okay for the first time in days.
“Okay, I’ll go, with no expectations. But I will only meet at The Grunge if Kane isn’t working,” I relent as the brightest smile appears back on her face.
“Yay!” she yells. “OMG, this is going to be so much fun! And the guy I’m meeting with is yummy. I met him at a LANY concert last week in Nashville, and they’re willing to drive out here just to take us out.” She bounces up and down, her blonde ponytail swinging with the movement.
“But just drinks at the bar,” I warn, wagging my finger at her before she gets too excited.
“Just drinks, I promise,” she agrees while making a cross-my-heart sign.
I chuckle at her excitement, and she laughs with me. Small seeds of unease slide into my stomach at the thought of meeting someone who isn’t Kane for drinks, but it’s harmless, right?
“Okay, now take some of my socks and go to work! Bring that leather mini skirt and tights with you to change into before The Grunge. You’ll make every man’s pants a little too tight once they see you,” she jokes, wagging her eyebrows at me.
I laugh. “Ew, you pervert. Okay, I’m going. I’ll see you tonight,” I respond, grabbing the clothes and socks. With a wave, I run out the door to Second Chances.
Changing in the staff bathroom should be an Olympic sport for me at this point.
I take myself in and am amazed at the way I’m able to make myself look this good in such a small space.
Except the fluorescent lights are harsh on my skin, highlighting the dark circles under my eyes that even my highest-coverage concealer cannot seem to cover.
I slip into my leather mini skirt and admire how it grips my ass and immediately makes me feel more confident with it on my body.
Morgan and I found it last year while shopping in Aspen while her family went skiing.
I put it on and completely fell in love with it.
Of course, I couldn’t afford a thing in that store, so Morgan secretly took a picture after I refused to let her buy it for me, and somehow Kane had it waiting for me back home by the time we got back.
I finish the look with my signature ripped fishnets and my Doc Martens, which pull the look together with a low-cut maroon crop top.
The weather is finally hot enough at night to ditch the long sleeves.
My lips are wine red, and with one last swipe of gloss, I feel much better.
Not that I’m really trying to impress the guys Morgan has us meeting, but it feels nice to get dressed up and leave the house.
I refuse to tell Morgan that.
The uneasy feeling from this morning is back in full force, turning my stomach into a pile of knots as I close up and get the rest of my stuff from the staff back room.
My stomach rolls as I think of any guy who isn’t Kane sitting across from me.
What will we even talk about? Am I supposed to ask his favorite color?
What if he thinks this is a date?
I’m aware that I’m spiraling, but as I get closer to The Grunge, traffic after seven is a mere whisper compared to what it was earlier in the afternoon.
I try to play some of my favorite songs to psych myself up for this, but even my kick-ass girl-power songs can’t seem to shake the unease I’m carrying.
It feels wrong. I know I agreed I would go out and experience things, but what if this is the rest of my life—going on date after date, searching for someone who makes me feel even a sliver of what Kane does?
He stole my heart when I was young, and I have yet to get it back. It feels as if I walk around with half a heart most days, that missing spot impossibly large.
I try to banish these feelings from my brain, chalking it up to nerves at meeting new people.
My brain short-circuits whenever someone new is around and I have to make small talk.
My skin begins to itch, and I tend to overshare.
After every encounter, I go through the entire conversation in my head, imagining the worst—they must think I’m annoying, or they hate me.
What if I talked about myself too much? It’s a self-deprecating spiral that unravels inside me long after the encounter ends.
I pull into the parking lot way too soon.
The bar appears crowded for a Monday night, and I shift my car into park.
I take a few deep breaths to try to force this foreboding feeling out of my chest. The night is still and humid, the birds at the nearby park chirping, with numerous sounds coming from the bar as the door opens and some patrons exit.
They hold the door for me, and I whisper a quick thanks.
The neon lights shine bright on the walls, and the music is some sort of pop-punk track my brain tries to focus on as I search for Morgan.
She texted me not that long ago that they were here and getting a table.
I glance around for that blonde hair when I finally spot her facing me in the back with two heads sitting across from her—one with slightly longer hair pulled into a man bun next to a taller man with shorter black hair.
My heart jolts for a moment, thinking it could be Kane, until he turns and I’m able to take in his profile.
Definitely not Kane.
He’s cute in a boyish way, with an average-sized nose and lips that lean on the smaller side.
He sports no scruff on his face and no visible tattoos.
I expect my heart to calm down, but it beats harder the closer I get.
The sounds in the bar send my already overwhelmed system into overdrive until Morgan stands up and gives me a hug.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you,” she whispers into my hair and smooths a hand down my back, sensing the unease running through me.
“Guys, this is Avery, my bestie I’ve been telling you about.
Avery, this is John.” She gestures to the man with a man bun and an impressive beard.
He has Clark Kent glasses and perfectly straight teeth.
I wish I could say he’s not Morgan’s type, but she’s never had one.
She always says she enjoys the male species in all forms, whereas my taste has always firmly been Kane.
I’d never given much thought to boys before Kane.
Sure, I had some crushes the way young kids do before they fully meet the boy and realize how gross and immature they are, but once Kane walked into Cherry Hill High, I realized my type was tall, stacked, dark-haired, and blessed with beautiful hazel eyes.
“And that’s Jordan,” she finishes as she gestures to the other guy at the table and sits down. I smile and give a tiny wave to the boys before sitting down across from Jordan.
He is cuter up close—next-door look to him. He appears to work a blue-collar job, judging by his callused hands, and I can appreciate a man who works with his hands. There is something so inherently male about watching them build something with their bare hands.
There’s a Coke and vodka sitting in front of me with a slice of lemon on the rim, and my heart trips as I glance at the bar to make sure Kane isn’t here. When my quick search comes up fruitless, I turn back to Jordan and smile again, hoping to defuse some of the awkward tension I can feel rising.
“Hey, Avery, you were the drag-along too, huh?” he muses on a laugh, flashing me a crooked smile that is oddly charming.
“Yes,” I huff a laugh. “Does he do it a lot?” I ask while taking a sip of the drink and groaning as the perfect ratio hits my tongue. I love the way the lemon breaks up the bite of alcohol and the sugar in the Coke gives me a buzz.
“Uh…I feel like if I say yes, I’m calling him a player, but if I say no, maybe that makes me lame,” he teases.
“No wrong answers here. Morgan is for sure a player, and she drags me to things all the time,” I reply, and he laughs at me. I watch his eyes track down to my very generous cleavage in this top before flicking back up to me. His ears redden at the tips when he sees me catch him, and I smirk.
The two next to us have not stopped talking since I sat down.
Morgan pats my leg and smiles at me every now and then to check on me.
That’s one of the reasons I always agree to be Morgan’s plus-one.
She constantly checks on me, and I know if she noticed I was uncomfortable, she would leave, no excuses or explanations.
“So, Avery, what do you do?” Jordan inquires as he takes a drink from the darker-looking beer that has been in front of him since I walked up.
After talking with Jordan a bit, I realize he’s funny.
I have been laughing so much the past few minutes, I must be halfway to a full six-pack.
He also just broke up with an ex, so it was nice to lay that out there and have him feel the same way.
He was just in the middle of telling me about a hike he and John went on that ended with them getting airlifted off the mountain after a mountain lion chased them a good couple miles through the Arizona forests until they got lost. I’m laughing so hard I spill my drink everywhere.
Jordan jumps up to help me start wiping it up, and he grabs my hand to ask if I’m okay when I feel it.
The change in the air around me. I turn to look around and am transfixed by a dark force clad in black, headed this way with a furious expression on his face. He eats up the distance between us quickly, his strides impossibly long, as if some force is pulling him over here.
When he approaches us, he pulls my hand out of Jordan’s grasp and puts himself slightly in front of me before he speaks darkly.
“How about you take your fucking hands off my girl before I remove them from your body.”