Chapter 4 #2
Andrew’s elbow deep in the sink, washin’ the last few glasses, when her cell rings, the whole thing buzzin' face-down next to the register.
She flips it over, ready to silence it, but then freezes when she sees the name: Ryan.
Her thumb hovers.
She should let it ring. Or toss it into the sink and blast the sprayer over it. But her dumb heart still trembles, remembering the good before everything went to shit.
She answers.
“Ryan?”
“Hey, Neen.”
“Ryan, it’s almost four.”
“I remember,” he says into the phone. “This the time you usually close up. Figured I’d catch ya.”
Her mouth’s dry, hand’s shakin’. She wants to believe he came to his senses, and sex with an eighteen-year-old wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Hell, maybe he got bored, and he misses her.
Ryan breathes through the phone, dragged out and tired.
“I wanted you to hear it from me,” he says. Nina’s eyes instantly go distant, hearin' the bad news in the spaces between the words. Her face doesn’t change. Her body's paralyzed. “Ashlee and I… we’re gettin’ married.”
Silence passes by slowly, no one sayin' nothin'.
“Yeah, so I—uh... I didn’t want you findin’ out from someone else or—”
She hangs the fuck up, the phone leavin' her hand before ever realizin' she pitched it across the bar. It arcs through the air and smashes against the back wall so loud Andrew flinches.
His wide eyes jump to her, rag frozen mid-swipe.
He stares, like—What the fuck just happened?
She leans over the bar, elbows on the wood, arms locked around her head. A sob punches out of her as if it broke a bone in her ribcage on the way up. She don't even care. Not tonight.
“Neen…”
But she don't answer.
Andrew shifts from one foot to the other, wipin’ his palms down the front of his jeans. Then he scratches his jaw, tries again, more gentle this time. “Yo… want me to step out a sec? Give ya a minute?”
Still, nothin' leaves her.
He sighs through the awkward silence, crossin' his arms, and leans back against the cooler, waitin'. Meanwhile, Nina’s head’s screamin’ with every lie she’s been tellin’ herself—it was just a fling, Ashlee won’t last, he’ll miss her once the fantasy wears off—gone. All of it up in flames.
It wasn’t just sex. He chose her over Nina. And now she’s standin’ in a bar, washed-up and alone, while the girl who wrecked her marriage is about to wear her last name.
Andrew rubs his forehead. “Whatever he told you? He’s a fuckin’ moron, Neen. You deserve better than him.”
But she’s shakin’ her head, resentment racin' up her spine. “No.” She laughs, worn out, and tightens her pony-tail until it pulls her scalp. “No, you don’t get it, Harding. You can’t.
” She turns to face him, rage barely caged.
“I don’t even fuckin’ want him,” she spits out the words lodged in her throat for months.
She lifts her hand, ready to unload some more, but then drops it.
Was it even worth explainin' to an eighteen-year-old?
“Imagine yourself married for seventeen years.
Seventeen fuckin' years. Then one day you're comin' home from work early, walkin' into your fuckin’ kitchen—your kitchen—and there's your wife. The woman you gave everything to, and she’s gettin’ bent over the counter as some other guy way hotter than you, way younger, is balls-deep inside her.”
She laughs again, but there’s nothin’ funny about it. “And your wife's lookin’ right at you,” she continues. “Like it’s your fault you got old.”
Andrew’s head drops, his hand scrapin' the back of his neck.
“How the fuck're you supposed to face the mirror after that, huh? Jesus, Andrew—how’re you supposed to take off your clothes in front of anyone ever again—” A tear slips out.
“And then you find out it wasn’t some midlife crisis or itch to scratch.
Wasn’t a fantasy or a fluke or a one-time fuck.
Nah, she was it. And I wasn’t. They’re gettin’ married.
I’m just… left.” Her eyes glass up, her voice shot to hell.
“He chose her. The girl he cheated on me with. Like seventeen years meant nothin’.
Just—‘thanks for the marriage, babe, but I’m tradin’ you in for the new model. ’”
A breath gets tangled up in her throat. She swallows it down like acid.
“He tossed me aside.” She snorts. “And now? Now, I gotta come in here every damn night, some sad old bitch behind the bar, pourin’ drinks for girls just like her. All tits and ass and watchin’ every guy in this fuckin’ place lose their mind.”
She laughs, but it lands as a cough stuck in her throat.
“And every night I’m standin’ here—hello! And no one even looks at me.” Her eyes cut down Andrew. “But you? You’ll never get it. You’re eighteen. You’re hot. You got time.” She scoffs, liftin' a shoulder. “But me? I’m ruined.”
Andrew stands with the rag balled tight in his hand.
Then blows out a breath and sets the rag down.
“Look where you are, Neen.” His arm sweeps wide, at the barstools, the cracked floor, the lights buzzin’ like they’re half-drunk too.
“You wanna be on the other side of this bar with one of those fuckin’ clowns?
” he says. “Half of ‘em can’t even spell commitment, and you’re back here runnin’ the whole fuckin’ place—sober, smart, beautiful.
And that?” He shakes his head. “Fuckin’ intimidating to ‘em. Which they also probably can’t spell. ”
She freezes up, but he keeps talkin'. “You think any of those assholes give a damn about what the girl looks like, seriously?” he says, almost amused.
“They really don't give a fuck, long as she's easy.
Swear t'God, they walk into this bar already knowin' they ain't findin' forever here, they're just lookin' to forget somethin' or fuck somethin'.” He lets the truth hover. “You ain’t ruined. You just ain’t left this bar long enough to meet someone worth meetin’.”
He leans back again, shoulder hittin' the cooler.
“Kinda ironic, though. You go on about wastin’ seventeen years on a marriage, and you still spend every night right here. Workin’. Watchin’. Waitin’. Just sayin’.”
Nina can’t help her smile. “Y’know you’re the first one to call me beautiful since my husband?” She laughs, but it leaves tastin' a whole lot like pity. “And now I can’t believe he ever meant it.”
Andrew shrugs. “I ain’t lyin’, Neen. Already fuckin’ said it. I’ll say it again.” He leans in, palms up at his sides. “You’re beautiful, aight?”
The word hits her again—beautiful—and she hates how fast it fucks with her. She don't mean to move, don't remember tellin' her feet to go, but she’s closin' the space between ‘em, chest risin' like her lungs are tryin' to turn back time.
Andrew swallows hard when she gets close, standin’ with squared-up shoulders, tryin’ hard to appear unfazed while the cracks creep across his face.
She drags her eyes across him—that jawline, that mouth she tries not to stare at all the damn time. Then her fingers graze his face.
His lips part to speak, but she doesn’t want to hear it.
So she kisses him.
It doesn't last a second.
He’s pullin’ back fast, eyes wide, hands stiff at his sides as if he’s scared to accidentally touch her wrong.
He tries to step back, but clips the bar behind him, raisin' his hand halfway, either blockin' her or beggin' her to stop. “Nina,” he says, his voice scrapin' out of him. “This ain’t right. This could fuck everything. I can’t lose this job.”
She shakes her head fast. She’s not thinking straight. She don't care.
“You won’t,” she says fast. “I swear. You won’t.”
He hasn’t moved, fists locked around the edge of the bar now. She don’t know what’s got him stuck: the paycheck or because of her age. Her saggin' tits. Her crow’s feet. Her droopy ass. Her fuckin’ mileage.
She’s forty-one.
He’s fuckin’ eighteen.
Shit.
She steps back when it hits her, hand flyin' up to her mouth. “Christ, I’m a fuckin’ idiot,” she spits, voice barely hangin’ on. “Course you don’t want this. Not with me, look at me.” The whole sentence crumbles on the last word.
Andrew’s mouth opens, but nothin’ comes out.
There’s a whole goddamn war goin’ on in his face.
And his eyes don’t know how to lie, so they drop to the ground fast.
Every muscle in him flexes, eyes scanning the sticky floor for answers, then what comes next unfolds slowly.
His jaw clenches as he grabs her waist.
First one hand, then the other, walkin' her back till the counter stops her.
The cold edge hits her spine, heat spreadin' everywhere else.
His gaze's dropped to where he’s unbuttoning her jeans, then her zipper's draggin’ slowly, followin' the line down like it’s the one he’s crossing. She doesn’t stop him—she should, but she can't. She's grippin’ the edge of the bar, tryin’ to breathe easy, anticipatin' each second.
His thumbs slide in, hook around her jeans and panties.
He drags 'em over her hips, down her thighs.
And he’s goin' with ‘em, lowerin' to one knee.
Her jeans and panties slump at her ankles and her shoes stay on while he makes her stance wide, makes her exposed, makes her pussy throb.
She thinks about the hair. It’s been a while since she’s shaved.
She wasn’t expectin' this. She’s about to apologize for it, for bein’ older, for all of it.
Her mouth opens to say somethin’, but it's too late.
His shoulder's already dipping between her thighs.
Then his head. Then his mouth.
His warm breath beats against her pussy first.
And then his hot, wet tongue slides right up the middle, parting her slit.
Nina chokes on her gasp, a sound pulled from somewhere she thought dried up years ago.
Because she can't remember the last time anyone’s gone down there.
And he isn’t playin’. This isn’t some tongue flick-and-run tease or fingers-on-the-outside bullshit.