Chapter 27 – Rosie #2
Groaning, he gives me a glass. “Don’t start talking to me about responsibilities again. Because I’ll call bullshit. Here.”
I roll my eyes but take the drink. Anything to shut him up.
I bring it up to my lips and he does the same.
We don’t take our eyes off each other, and the burn is fierce and searing as the once familiar liquid runs down my throat.
The warmth and sweetness on my tongue evokes images of my youth. Beck and me. It was always Beck and me.
He could’ve chosen any other kind of alcohol from those shelves, but he chose the one that used to be my favorite. The go-to liquor we’d sneak from his dad’s stash and drink on the beach while we watched the sun sink into the ocean.
Well played, Beck.
“So what’s the deal, your rich boyfriend doesn’t let you drink anymore?”
“Fiancé,” I correct for about the thousandth time. But it’s more of a reflex because I guess West isn’t my fiancé. Not anymore. “It’s not about letting me. I drink wine sometimes.”
He lowers his head to catch my attention. “Again, he can’t be your fiancé when you’re still married to me,” he growls.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, turning around to face the pool tables. “I thought we were calling a truce?”
“Fine.” Beck moves from behind the bar and shuffles toward the closest pool table. He pushes a ball and it rolls into a corner pocket. “But wine? Really?”
I breathe out a light laugh. “Yeah, wine. It’s good, once you acquire a taste for it.”
“No offense, but I don’t need to force myself to drink to get a taste for it. Have you met my alcoholic dad?” He chuckles dryly.
“Recovering alcoholic dad, right?”
He bobs his head. “Right. Two years now.”
I take a pool stick from the holder on the wall and fidget with it. “How does that work? Him owning a bar when he’s a recovering alcoholic?”
“I don’t know.” He rolls another ball across the table, but it bounces off the side. “He says it’s about discipline. A constant reminder of all he’s lost that keeps him from drinking.”
“And your mom?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
“She moved to Florida after the divorce. Started a new family. Haven’t seen her in several years.”
“I’m sorry.”
He shrugs, taking the pool stick from me. “I’m not. She made her choice.”
I watch as he lines up a shot with the cue ball and then stretches across the table. “So that’s it then? She made her choice, so you just write her off? That’s just what you do, don’t you?”
He throws his head back, groaning. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing, just forget it.” I snatch the stick from him, giving him a little pout. I’m tired. Tired from this long day. And honestly, tired from going round and round with Beck about the same things.
“No, I won’t forget it.” He slides between me and the pool table. “You want to talk about the choices you made? About you leaving?”
“Do you want to talk about the choices you made? I’m not the only one who made choices. Yes, I’m the one who left, but, Beck, one of us had to.”
“No, that’s bull and you know it. We could’ve made it work…together. That’s what husbands and wives do.”
“And I’ve apologized for my choices, for my fault in what happened between us. Have you? You could’ve come after me.”
He drops his head. I’m not sure if it’s because he’s getting ready to apologize or if he’s getting emotional or angry. But that’s the problem, we seem to have lost the ability to communicate.
I set the stick down on top of the pool table and toss back the rest of the whiskey, my mouth numbing to the burning liquid. I strut back to the bar where Beck left the bottle sitting and refill my glass.
Beck shuffles over next to me and fills his again. “Truce, remember?” He holds his glass out to me.
I glare at him without speaking but relent and clink my cup against his. I tip the glass back and swallow a big gulp, my nostrils burning. “How many more times do you think we’re going to have to call a truce before we’re done with this drink?” I ask.
“Well, technically this is our second drink.”
I roll my eyes again and amble back to the pool table, my body loosening up from the alcohol and dulling the ache in my back. I set my drink down and the retro jukebox in the corner of the bar catches my eye. It’s one of those old Encore CD jukeboxes instead of the digital ones most bars have now.
While I search through the selections, Beck sidles up next to me, holding out a five-dollar bill.
I’m tempted to refuse the offer, but I don’t have any cash on me, so I reluctantly accept it.
Flipping through the mix of genres, it’s clear Mr. Stone curated the selection choices himself.
I decide not to overthink it and pick enough songs to eat through the five bucks.
Returning to the pool table, I hop onto it and sit on the edge, letting my legs dangle off.
The first song begins, and it’s a love ballad between two country singers, which I chose unintentionally.
The tone of their voices has a hum travelling through my body, turning me inside out the more the acoustics fill the space.
I try and fail miserably at not looking in Beck’s direction, but I can’t fight it.
We make eye contact as he watches me curiously over the rim of his glass, the glimmer in his brown eyes setting fire to my bare skin.
The sexual tension returns and stretches between us like a resistance band.
My gaze flicks away and I pick up my drink again and run my thumb over the side of the glass.
We can’t let the band snap.
Beck sets his drink down and struts over to the dart board. It’s a worn, old-school one. He plucks the darts out from the board before stepping back and planning his attack. He throws a few and they reach the target but no bull’s-eye.
While he continues taking his aggression out on the darts, I twirl my glass. The whiskey and ice swishing around distracts me until Beck lets out a grunt. I glance up at him and take another sip of my drink.
Tonight, he’s a lot like I remember him. Maybe not in the gray sweats and the 1988 Willie Nelson “On the Road Again Tour” T-shirt. But somehow, the style still suits him.
His hair is a little messy after his shower and flops back over his ears every time he pushes it away.
The brown in his eyes change in different lighting, just like Charlie’s do.
Right now, under the half-lit florescent bar lights, they’re more chestnut brown.
But out in the sun, they have golden undertones.
As he focuses on his next throw, he bites on his lower lip. He probably doesn’t even know he’s doing it. But I know he does this when he concentrates on something. I used to think it was sexy. And dammit, I still do.
Which is downright silly. Except this is Beck. My first love. My husband.
And is it so wrong to be attracted to my husband?