Chapter Five
Max
Wildhorse is a bar that’s been in Abbott forever.
Some college kids from down the way used to show up until they realized the locals weren’t interested in putting up with underage drinkers with fake IDs getting wasted, and the other shenanigans that came with it.
Now, it’s mostly good for a few drinks, the occasional good traveling band, and line dancing on Thursdays.
Becca insisted on ordering a car to drive us when we left the house so we could both drink, but I think she did it so she could brazenly keep shoving shots of tequila in my face for the past hour and a half.
“Two more, bartenderino!” Becca throws up two fingers towards Dave, the weekend guy, and he shakes his head, pulling out two more shot glasses and filling them with clear liquid.
She holds it up to me and I roll my eyes and clink glasses with her.
I don’t drink often, and it’s been a while since tequila shooters were the drink of choice on a Friday night.
But I pick and choose my battles with Becca, especially if Callan Reed really is going to be in this bar tonight.
I might actually lean on the tequila to get through it.
The tequila burns and I force my eyes shut. Becca is dancing beside me, sipping on a mixed drink and I’m gripping the bar. If I let go, I might just run out the door and walk the two miles home.
“Lighten up, Max!” Becca knocks her hip against mine. “Woo!”
Becca puts her drink down and claps, hollering as the band finishes their song. They say they’re taking a break and “Cherry Pie” by Warrant starts blasting through the speakers, which is unsurprising because Wildhorse’s playlist always includes something for everyone.
“If you don’t stop looking around like you’re trying to mark all your exits, I’m going to drag you on top of the bar and make you dance.” Becca finishes her drink, staring me dead in the eyes. “Dave won’t mind, will ya, Dave?”
Dave looks from Becca to me, shaking his head. “It wouldn’t be the first time you guys danced on the bar, would it?” Becca throws her head back laughing. “Just give me a warning this time so I can move all the glass.”
I look from Becca to the front doors and survey the room.
The bar has a crowd in it, but the music isn’t super loud, so conversations are happening in every corner.
A pool game is going on one side of the room, and a couple of older guys are dancing with their beers singing the song at the top of their lungs.
“Alright, alright, Dave, give me another to shut this one up,” I turn back towards the bar and put my shot glass down to be filled back up.
“For old time’s sake,” Dave slams a second glass next to mine, turns the bottle, setting down the saltshaker and two lime wedges. He picks up the second glass, in a cheers motion, and he shoots it down.
“Yes, Dave knows what time it is!” Becca yells at the top of her lungs, and I start to consider maybe we have both lost our minds to be drinking this much.
I can’t hold back the cackling laugh that bubbles out.
My body is starting to feel just a little warm, and more comfortable in the tight jeans Becca made me wear with the black, faded band t-shirt.
I get the salt and lime, take the shot. The lime helps the burn, as I send Becca an annoyed, but grateful look. I needed this tonight.
“I’m taking a break after this one,” I say, but she shakes her head and sways to the music. “Actually, I’ll be right back.”
I’m still anxious, though it’s become duller after those last two shots.
I feel like I need to take a minute to compose what’s left of my nerves.
I step to the side and head for the bathroom.
The warmth spreading through my body hits my face, so I make a note to have Dave pour some water for us when I get back to the bar.
I push the women’s bathroom door open and move myself in front of the mirror.
My hair is down, wavy and wild, and Becca insisted I wear the slightest bit of eyeliner with my normal neutral makeup, and for the first time in a long time, I almost feel human.
I run my hands down my hips, feeling the little sliver of skin peeking through from under the top that’s cut a little short and I stare into my own eyes.
“You can just be Max tonight, you don’t have to do anything else, you can have fun for once,” I tell myself quietly in the mirror, wondering if it’s possible to just be without questioning every word before I say it.
I take a breath and wash my hands before taking one last look in the mirror.
A slow remake of ‘I Put a Spell on You’ starts seeping through the speakers behind the door.
“They really are pushing the classics tonight.” I shake my head and take another breath as I pull open the door and head back toward the bar.
I look up to see Dave sliding a glass that looks like it has whiskey in it towards where Becca is standing with her back to me, talking to—
“Oh, shit.”
The words come out under my breath.
Callan Reed is talking to Becca with a small smile playing on his lips. He grabs the glass Dave slid towards him and slides a credit card back with a small nod.
My feet carry me to the bar before my survival instincts can catch up. I spin around like there might be a trapdoor, a rescue ladder, an act of God.
What am I doing? I haven’t seen him in seven years. I can’t just walk up and say, ‘Hey, we might have fallen in love if I wasn’t dating that one idiot, but how you been?’
Don’t be an idiot, Max, he’s just a guy, you haven’t seen him in forever, maybe he’s married, maybe he has three kids, and you have nothing to be nervous—
“At least you didn’t hide behind the bar like you did with the desk earlier today.”
His voice lands at my ear and spreads heat up my neck. My eyes snap open.
Callan is standing next to me as I turn my head slightly, and I’m staring up into the smirking eyes of someone I used to know. A few new lines at the edges, same perfect almost-smile.
“Hiding behind the—you saw me earlier when you were talking to Becca.”
I must look like a dumbfounded idiot with my mouth hanging open in front of him.
He leans sideways on the edge of the bar, and his eyes look like they’re taking in every inch of my face, and his lip is pulled between his teeth, fighting a smile.
I made the mistake of looking at his mouth as it curved upwards.
I never let myself consider his lips before. I try to stop myself from staring, but the tequila has control now, and it wants to memorize the way the edge of his mouth caught the yellow bar lights.
“I could never not see you, Sims. Your friend just thought I was standing in front of the window because I was lost. I wasn’t lost.” His elbow is on the bar, but his hand reaches out to touch my elbow lightly as he says it. “I saw you.”
Me. He said me. He saw me. Respond, you idiot!
But my mouth and my brain aren’t connected at the moment, because the touch of his skin on mine makes me forget my name, forget this bar, forget words.
Without my consent, my body turns towards him and leans into his touch.
I am sure my mouth is still hanging open.
His soft brown hair has little curls meeting his face in the front, disheveled.
And now that he’s so close, the beard I stared at in the golden sun earlier has just a few strands of gray sparkling in the bar lights.
My lungs feel tight, and I glance down at his hand which has now found its way back to the bar as he sets his glass down.
My brain connects to my eyes suddenly in search of a ring on his left hand. No ring.
Just big, strong hands that look like they could—
“You know,” his voice startles my eyes back up to his. “There I was, thinking I’d never see you again.”
He leans back a bit, revealing the plain white t-shirt stretched across his chest under the black bomber jacket.
His chest. Every useful thought I had leaves the building.
Is this the tequila?
The t-shirt looks like it had been fitted to him, soft cotton stretched just enough, clinging to all the best places when I’m trying to concentrate on his words.
The thin fabric outlining the hard lines of his chest, the curve of his shoulders under the jacket, and what must be the solid strength of massive biceps with twirling tattoos I know are running down his arms.
Pay attention, dummy! What did he say? Say something agreeable! Pretend you heard him!
My brain tries to catch up, and I only manage to squeak out, “Oh yeah?”
And begrudgingly, I pull my eyes from his glorious chest back up to his face. His eyes sparkle—do men’s eyes sparkle? Or do they shine?
The band talks into the microphone and the speakers break the trance as Callan and I both look in the direction of the stage.
“We’ve been working on this cover, let us know what you think. This is Promises by EMO.”
The guitar starts playing, setting some kind of mood, and Callan’s eyes meet mine again.
“I missed you, Sims, it’s been a long time.” The nickname I didn’t know I missed leaves his lips as they curve up into a smirk. “You haven’t changed a bit, same beautiful face.”
I tilt my head at him.
Callan lifts the caramel-colored liquid in his glass to his lips. I take my advice from my bathroom pep talk earlier and don’t pause to think before acting.
Before he can move the glass back down to the bar, I lift my hand, placing it half on his around the glass. I don’t break eye contact and his smile falters slightly.
I softly pull the drink from his hands and bring it to my lips. The smell of whiskey meets my nose. No backing down now.
I tip the glass and take a big sip, the smoky burn running down the back of my throat. His hand is frozen in midair around an invisible glass, and I put it back in his hand slowly.
“I’ve changed a little.”
Leaning back against the bar, I silently thank Becca for pushing the liquid courage earlier.