Chapter 47
ANNA
The crowd at Muses was pure madness.
The bar buzzed with chaos. Drinks were flying off the counter, orders piling up, and one of the bartenders was arguing about whether grenadine was a garnish or a vibe. Short-staffed again, I’d volunteered for another shift. It wasn’t like I had anything better to do. Not writing, that was for sure.
I hadn’t opened my laptop in days. Why bother? The stories weren’t good enough, and neither was I. It was easier to focus on something tangible, like pouring drinks and wiping down counters, than staring at a blank screen and waiting for inspiration that never came.
And then there were the questions.
“What’s Luke up to these days?” a regular named Dave asked as I poured his usual gin and tonic. “Still dodging paparazzi?”
I forced a smile. “Something like that.”
“Hey, Anna,” one of the college kids at the end of the bar called out. “Your boyfriend is that actor, right? The one with the abs?”
I rolled my eyes. “Sure, but I’m pretty sure he also has a face and a career.”
Marie Antoinette, sliding in next to me to grab a fresh tray of glasses, smirked. “You should print out an FAQ sheet for these people. ‘Yes, he’s famous. No, I won’t introduce you. And for the love of vodka, stop asking if he’s single.’”
I groaned, gripping the edge of the bar for support. “I think I liked it better when people just ordered their drinks and left.”
By the time my shift ended, I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was kick off my shoes and collapse, but my phone buzzed with a call.
Luke.
The calls had been shorter lately, more strained, like we were both walking on a tightrope. He’d been short with me, snapping sometimes over things that didn’t matter, and I wasn’t any better. My patience was thin, my words meaner than they needed to be.
But I still answered every time.
Because as much as the tension between us hurt, the silence would’ve been worse. I told myself that these calls were a lifeline, even if they felt more like a reminder of everything we weren’t saying.
I was scared that it was just a matter of time before he broke up with me. It was inevitable, as much as I didn’t want to face it. I didn’t know when it had shifted, when the easy rhythm we’d once had turned into this push and pull of strained pleasantries and unspoken frustration.
But every time his name lit up my screen, I felt the same knot in my chest. Part of me wanted to let it go to voicemail, to avoid the inevitable stumbles and sighs. But I couldn’t bear to miss the chance to hear his voice, even if it wasn’t the voice I knew.
So, I took a breath, plastered on a smile he couldn’t see, and answered.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” His tone carried that edge of tiredness I’d come to expect. “How was your day?”
“Busy,” I said, tucking my legs under me. “I picked up an extra shift at Muses.”
“Another one?” he asked, and I couldn’t tell if it was concern or judgment in his voice.
“Yeah, another one,” I said flatly. “It’s not like I’ve got anything else going on.”
There was a pause, and I could almost hear him piecing together what I wasn’t saying. “What about your writing?” he asked finally.
I closed my eyes, already regretting where this was going. “I haven’t had time for that. Work’s been too busy.”
“Anna, come on,” he said, his voice tinged with frustration. “You’re a writer.”
“Well, maybe I’m not a writer anymore,” I retorted, the words escaping before I could stop them.
“That’s not true, and you know it,”
“Excuse me?” I said, sitting up straighter. “What do you know about it, Luke? You’re out there living your dream, doing exactly what you want to do. You have no idea what it’s like to pour your heart into something and get nothing in return.”
“That’s not fair. You think everything comes easy for me? You have no idea what it’s like on set, how hard I have to work just to prove I belong there.”
“Yeah, well, at least you’ve made it,” I shot back. “I’m stuck, trying to keep my head above water, and you’re halfway across the country telling me I’m not trying hard enough.”
His breath caught, and then he replied, “I can’t understand why you can’t come to LA.”
“What did you expect me to do, Luke?” I said, my voice shaking. “Drop everything?”
There was a pause, just long enough to hurt, before he replied.
“You’re stuck, Anna. Stuck in that bar, stuck in your head, stuck in your own pity party,” he said, his words turning sharp.
“And you want to blame me for leaving? Maybe you should look at yourself. Ask why you won’t leave New Orleans. ”
He made it sound so simple, like moving was just a plane ticket and not an unraveling of my entire life. He didn’t understand that leaving wasn’t just hard for me, that it felt impossible.
I was angry that he still didn’t get it. That he refused to hear me when I said no, when I said I wasn’t ready.
I wanted to tell him that I wasn’t trapped here—I chose this city.
I stayed because it’s the one place that feels like home, because I know what it means to lose everything.
But the words wouldn’t come. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow.
Fear and anger tangled until I couldn’t tell which was which.
One beat passed, then another. When Luke finally spoke again, his voice was quieter, but it landed like a blow. “Maybe this isn’t working.”
I froze, the words slicing through me. “You’re right,” I murmured, though every part of me wanted to scream the opposite. “It’s not.”
Neither of us said anything else.
The call ended, and I sat there staring at the phone, my heart pounding in my chest.
I’d always known it could end this way.
But knowing didn’t make it hurt any less.