Chapter 13
the before and the after
Hannah - five years ago
“You don’t serve cocktails?”
The grumpy bartender looks at me with an expression that couldn’t be less bothered by my shock.
I stare him down. This has to be a joke. His face is stoic, completely unmoving, and I can’t help but bark a laugh. He rolls his eyes.
“What’s this establishment called, Mr. Barkeep?” I ask.
A pair of weathered eyes, wrinkled at the edges from what has to be decades of glowering, narrow at me. “Bars don’t need names. People know what they’re getting when they walk in the door.”
“Hmm…that’s deep. I shall henceforth call this place the bar that shall not be named.”
Rowan laughs. The bartender does not.
I give the old dude my best toothy grin. “What about you? Do you, you peach of a man, have a name?”
“Name’s Alan.”
Old school country music hums through the bar, filling the battle of wills in the space between Alan and me. Little does he know, I just dumped a man at the altar. I’ve got snark and sarcasm to spare.
“Listen, dollface—”
My brows skyrocket and I gasp, clutching my chest. “Alan, are you flirting with me?”
He ignores me. “You want a cocktail? Go see my brother, Gary, in Denver. He’s the sold out pushover of the two of us, but you ain’t getting it from me. Beer, shots, liquor neat or on the rocks. That’s it. Take it or leave it.”
I smother a laugh, but Rowan’s already too far gone. Alan looks bored. “I’ll take whatever beer you have on tap.”
“Same,” Rowan chuckles as he sets our helmets on the bar top. “You think you could store these behind the bar for us?”
The scowly bartender gives the helmets a disapproving once-over. Doesn’t say a word.
Eyes locked on Alan, I whisper to Rowan, “I think that’s a no.”
Rowan pulls the helmets into his lap. “On second thought, never mind.”
Alan prepares our drinks while Rowan and I, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, stare at each other for a beat before tucking the helmets at our feet by the backpack and jacket.
Beers appear in front of us a minute later.
“I like you, Alan. You’re a good man even if you are a bit prickly,” I say, holding my glass aloft.
He huffs and moves to the other end of the bar, mumbling something about kids these days as he goes.
Rowan and I sip in silence as I take in the place.
If the word dive had a picture next to it in the dictionary, this would be it.
Tiny bar. Crotchety bartender serving half a dozen patrons seated on a row of mismatched wooden stools.
Small platform stage in the back that might have been used for solo musical acts at one point in time, but now serves as a dais for what is clearly Alan’s pride and joy: the jukebox.
“You think that used to be a dance floor?” I ask Rowan, referring to the floor in front of the stage.
It’s slightly more worn and discolored than the rest of the place, littered with rickety wooden tables and chairs.
I can feel the splinters lodging themselves in the thighs of the people filling those seats as we speak.
“Nah, sounds like too much fun. Alan doesn’t like fun.”
“Alan may not like fun, but who’s to say all these fine people don’t know how to have a good time.” Sure, everyone here is old enough to be my grandparent, but they can’t all be Alans.
A smirk forms slowly across Rowan’s face. “Only one way to find out,” he says before he hops off his stool and ambles to the jukebox.
I sip my beer while he flips through the options and keys in his selection. He returns a few minutes later, eyes bright.
“What’d you pick?”
“Let’s just say, if they’re not two-stepping by the end of the first chorus, they’re all dead inside.” He takes a pull from his glass. “Like Alan.”
“You’re not gonna tell me what it is?”
“Guess you’ll have to wait and find out.”
I lift my glass to my lips, holding his gaze over the rim. “Tease.”
He shrugs and the silence stretches. Curiosity is tangible, right there on the surface of his tan face. I can’t hide from what happened much longer.
“Okay, Rowan.” I plop my beer down on the bar with a thunk. “Ask your questions.”
The song from the jukebox ends. Rowan and I freeze in the few-seconds pause before the next track starts. George Strait’s “Check Yes or No.” I arch a brow. He shakes his head.
He spins on his stool to face me fully, props an elbow on the bar. “You know you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t wanna tell me, right?”
“Understood and I appreciate it.” My smile is soft as I turn toward him until our legs are slotted together—a perfect little Tetris stack of his, mine, then his again. He bounces his gaze to where our knees bump together. “Ask.”
“Why’d you run away?”
I scoff. “Going for the jugular off the bat, I see.” Rowan’s cobalt eyes soften, a reminder that I don’t have to say a word if I don’t want to. My chest tightens. “He was cheating on me.”
Rowan releases a restrained breath through his nose. “And you found this out today?”
It only happened a couple of hours ago, the betrayal is still fresh. Hateful tears prick beneath my lashes. Tears that have no business being there. “I found them kissing in the elevator.”
“You knew her?”
Nodding, I tip back my beer.
“Who was she?”
I huff a mirthless laugh. “His childhood best friend. The woman he assured me for years was ‘only a friend.’” I shake my head and stare daggers into the sticky bar top. “I even made her a bridesmaid.” God, I am such an idiot.
“The blonde pixie?” My head snaps up and Rowan clarifies, “Short blonde hair, black dress.”
I clear my throat, voice barely a whisper when I say, “Yeah.”
He bobs his head. “I saw her. Hated her instantly.”
That makes me laugh. “You wanna know the craziest part? Obviously it hurts, right? And it’s humiliating and I hate both of them, but…” I drag my teeth over my bottom lip.
“But what?”
“I’m kind of relieved.”
My words hang there. The truth of them liberating and shameful all at once.
“I fell out of love with him a long time ago, and I never should have accepted his proposal, but my mom is—”
The song changes and I shift my attention to the jukebox until Leann Rimes’ soulful “Blue” fills the bar. Rowan pays it no mind, his attention wholly focused on me.
“Your mom is…” he prods.
I chug the last of my beer, wiping the back of my hand over my mouth when I finish it. “She’s got cancer.”
The rest floats out of me like whispers on a cloud.
I’m saying the words, I know I am, but they land without conviction, drifting away before I can take them back.
“She beat it once already. But it came back and the treatment isn’t working this time.
And, I don’t know…she’s always been this bigger-than-life, happy-go-lucky person, and I think I wanted to show her I was happy too.
I felt like if I broke things off with him, I’d be breaking her heart as much as his.
I realize now that’s dumb because his heart clearly wasn’t in it either, but…
” I shrug, a new set of tears threatening.
Tears that count for something. “I didn’t want her to die thinking I’d be alone.
I wanted…” I pinch my eyes shut. Rowan sweeps a tear off my cheek before I can.
I inhale a shaky breath. “All she’s ever wanted is for me to be happy, and of all the things I can’t fix for her…
I figured I could at least give her that. ”
Alan interrupts, quietly setting a fresh beer on the bar. He pins an inquisitive look at Rowan. “You responsible for gettin’ the lady home tonight, young man?”
Rowan squares his shoulders. “Yes, sir.”
Alan nods, swipes Rowan’s unfinished beer, replaces it with a glass of water, and walks away.
Rowan and I exchange a confused look for a beat before we both lose it.
“You know what?” Rowan says, laughter subsiding. “Respect.”
Long seconds tick by, Rowan sipping his water, me nervously spinning my fresh pint.
He finally breaks the silence. “Sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks.”
The jukebox goes quiet again, the gears inside clicking and spinning as a fresh track comes through the speakers: John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High.” Rowan meets my wide-eyed gaze. I’m so confident this has to be it.
He shakes his head.
I gape. “Really?”
“Nope. Good song though.”
It’s the best. I close my eyes and let the familiar soft melody wash over me, swaying slightly in my seat. When I open my eyes, Rowan’s are right there to tether me.
“More questions?” I ask.
His gaze searches the contours of my face. “For the sake of my own sanity, I’m gonna need you to tell me that William McDouche III is indeed a douchebag.”
“I’m sorry, who?”
“Your ex-fiancé.”
“Yeah, I got that, but what did you call him?”
“William McDouche III, or I thought maybe he could have been Robert Robertson.”
I laugh so loud, straight from the belly, head craned toward the ceiling.
When I compose myself, I drop my chin and lean into Rowan’s space, acutely aware of where his knee is pressed into mine. I pop my brows. “You wanna know his real name?”
“Only if it’s better than the ones I gave him.”
“Oh, I assure you it is.”
He drags a hand from his forehead to his chin, two dimples appearing on the way down like a magic trick. “Hit me.”
“Gerald.” His mouth quirks. “Eugene.” Brows soar. “Masters.” He cocks his head and I push in closer. “The fifth.”
He howls. A smile so big it nearly splits his face sends a swarm of butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Muscled arms barely contained by his shirt crossed over his chest, his head tips back on his laugh.
Beautiful.
A blush warms my cheeks and I sip my beer to hide it.
“Sounds like a gem,” he quips.
I damn near do a spit take. Beer dribbles down my chin and I wipe it away. “You don’t miss a thing, do you?”
Rowan taps his temple twice. “Military mind, baby.”
A flicker of something warm sparks deep inside my chest.
Wistfully, as if he’s completely lost in thought and oblivious to the effect the term of endearment has on me, he adds, “G. E. M.”
I nod sagely. “Five generations of men voluntarily made this choice, Rowan.”