Chapter 25
Liz, May 22
I thought I was prepared to see him right up until I did. I barely had time to process the fact that he was there and then he was in front of me. I don’t even know what I said; all I know is that anger was instantly in my throat, choking me.
I think I recovered quickly. I hope I came across as confident. I am sitting at the bar now, but I am terrified to turn around and see if he is still behind me.
“Hey, Liz Banks?” some guy at my elbow asks.
“Yeah.”
“Hey, Chris Anderson. How the heck are ya?” He thrusts his hand out and I accept it, shaking.
I smile as I desperately try to remember who Chris Anderson is. It comes to me quickly, but blurry like an old VHS movie. “Were you in my English class?” I ask, hesitantly.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he says, his whole face lighting up with recognition. “We did the Real Housewives of Verona skit for the Romeo and Juliet unit.”
“That’s right, we did.” I smile at the strange memory. “How have you been?”
“Good. I’m married now. The old ball-and-chain will be along tomorrow for the reunion. How about you?”
“I’ve been good.” Safe. Seems like a safe answer.
“Married? Kids?” he presses.
Just like that, I hate Chris Anderson. “Um, no. Still single.” I try to keep my voice upbeat, like this isn’t a sore subject he’s encroached upon.
Chris gives me a sad little smile and taps my shoulder. “That’s alright. I’m sure the right person is out there somewhere.”
I force a laugh, but inside I’m screaming. Funny how I can unload all my fury on Ben in front of half a bar, but when it comes to admitting I’m hurt to Chris Anderson, of all people, I choke on the words.
On that note, I just want to leave. “I actually have to go.” I lamely add, “I just remembered I left my stove on.” I don’t finish my drink or slow down to look around the room as I rush out. I have the irrational thought that if I walk fast enough I can leave the pain I don’t want to explain sitting there at the bar with stupid Chris Anderson and his intrusive questions. If I don’t stop I won’t feel the pain; it won’t find me. I reach my car, fumble with the keys, wrench open the door, drop myself in the seat, and slam the door again — anything to create a barrier. I’m actually in my car with the air conditioning on before the tears start.