Chapter 26 Amy
It’s eight o’clock, and just like we agreed, I’m hovering outside the Java. Correction—it’s now eight thirty. I check my watch for the hundredth time. Lewis is late. Like, really late. That’s not usual for him, and I decide to message him.
AMY: Where *are* you?
I give it another fifteen minutes.
AMY: Lewis? Are you okay?
Still no reply. Part of me is worried about him, but there’s another part of me that thinks maybe I just got stood up.
That doesn’t make sense, though. He was distant in January, sure—but this doesn’t match up with how he was with me yesterday.
There was that kiss at the gym, plus the messages later that night.
I just can’t believe he would’ve forgotten.
It’s freezing out here, and when I can’t stand it any longer, I push open the door and head to the bar for a beer. Thank you, my trusty fake ID. I pull up the app and check his status. He’s offline. I fire off a quick message to Adam, instead.
AMY: Hey, it’s Amy. I was supposed to have a session with Conley tonight but haven’t heard from him. He held up, or something?
ADAM: Hey Amy Maybe you got the day mixed up? L is in Charlotte for NBA tryouts. Then he’s in Atlanta for the Hawks, I’m picking him up from the airport on Friday.
He left town? Okay… Thanks for the heads-up, dude.
I stare at myself in the mirror behind the bar, overcome with the urge to launch my phone at it.
AMY: Damn, yeah—my mistake! Thanks
It’s not Adam’s fault, but I suddenly hate the Campus Drivers.
I cringe inwardly. I wish I hadn’t messaged Lewis.
I can’t believe he would’ve forgotten about his tryouts, which can mean only one thing—he had a date with me and then changed his mind without even telling me.
Again. I was hoping he’d changed, but he’s the same pain in the ass he’s always been.
Seriously, how long would it have taken to send me a quick message?
I thought we were close enough now to… I shake my head.
What do I know, really? I’m totally lost.
I catch the bartender’s eye. “Same again.”
“This one’s on me.”
I whip around. A guy is slouching there next to me—thirtysomething, eyes shining with booze.
“Thanks, but I’m good.”
“I insist,” he slurs, dragging his stool closer.
Great. I’m on a hot date with a hot mess.
I sip on my beer, studiously ignoring him.
You wanna buy me drinks? Knock yourself out, man. But that doesn’t mean you get to talk to me. I’m definitely not in the mood to play.
I should give him a heads-up—warn him that when I swipe, I go in with my fists.
“What’s your name, honey?”
“Tina Turner.”
“A little fiery tonight, huh?”
Don’t make me glass you.
He laughs. “The name’s—”
“I don’t actually give a fuck,” I snap.
“That could work.” He nods. “I’m passing through for the night—quick fuck, no names needed.”
I place my beer down on the counter and turn to him slowly.
“You know, on a scale of ‘shittiest nights ever,’ this one was about an eighty. You just got that up to ninety, and if you don’t stop busting my balls, you’ll get to see what happens when it hits a hundred.”
I focus back on my beer, tightening my grip on the glass when I hear him mutter under his breath.
“Bitch.”
Whatever you do, don’t hit him—don’t do it, Amy.
When he finally slinks off, my mind circles back to Lewis Conley, master ghoster.
All those doubts I had tucked away at the back of my mind have come flying out with a vengeance.
I was kidding myself, and now I have no choice but to face the cold, hard facts—he only ever comes to see me when he needs to get his rocks off, and while that’s not necessarily a bad thing, it’s not enough for me. It’s not what I expected from this.
I scramble for excuses. Maybe I’m getting it all wrong.
Maybe there’s a valid reason for why he is the way he is.
It doesn’t matter which way I stack it, though—the truth is, I’ve been kidding myself since day one.
When we hook up, it feels like so much more than sex, but I’m starting to think that’s all in my head. Fuck. Why is this so complicated?
“Same again.”
I’ve had way too much to drink, but I’m past caring.
“This one’s on me.”
You have got to be fucking kidding me…
This time, I swivel to my left, and it’s not the drunk from earlier. It’s something worse.
“Esteban…”
The shitiness scale just hit a hundred.
“Good night?” He perches on the stool next to me. “Looks like your new friend is a quitter.”
He nods over at the drunk guy and orders himself a beer.
“You’ve been right here all along?”
“I always am, baby.”
I roll my eyes. “Help a girl out, next time? I nearly slit his throat.”
“I was hoping that might happen—the old Brooklyn Hitman wouldn’t have thought twice.”
“We’re in Sycamore Heights, remember?” I swig my beer. “Get over it.”
He shakes his head. “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?”
“Waiting for my girlfriends.”
He lets out a bark of laughter. “Why don’t I believe that?” He eyes me. “Let me guess—your jock left you hanging.”
Ouch. How did he figure that one out? Because he sees you. It’s that simple.
“Can you please stop stalking me?”
“I’m looking out for you, Amy. There’s a difference.”
“I can look out for myself—doesn’t that make you happy? Maybe I haven’t changed, after all.”
“No. I don’t think you have.”
Our eyes meet in the mirror, and I watch as he takes a gulp of his beer.
“Your crush is staring at us,” he murmurs.
“Don’t trigger him.”
He glances back at me, his eyes shining. “You’re getting me all nostalgic, Amy-Girl.”
“That nickname was cute when we were, like, fifteen.”
“I’m sorry,” he says abruptly.
“For what?”
“How I was the other day in the shop—I went pretty hard on you.”
“Yeah, you were talking shit. That’s cool, though. I’m used to it.”
“No.” He shakes his head. “I was harsh, but I was honest. I wasn’t talking shit, and tonight proves it. You’re sitting here with beer number three. All alone. Wanna tell me what that’s about?”
“No thanks.”
“Okay. I’m here if you need a friend, though.”
I swirl the dregs of my beer around in the bottle. “Since when were we ever friends?”
“That could be enough for me.”
I don’t believe that for a second, but it does give me pause. Maybe I can pretend it’s true, just for tonight. Maybe that way, at least I can stop obsessing over Lewis.
We spend an hour, Esteban and I, chatting like old friends, reminiscing about all the crazy shit we used to get up to, and while the memories would normally make me wince, tonight we’re laughing over them.
Sycamore Heights Amy is off-duty—hanging out with Esteban is like catching up with the old me.
I glance at my phone. Three messages from Raven.
“I need to head out.”
No messages from Lewis.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Esteban offers, and I laugh. “What? This area is kinda shady…”
I fake a shudder.
He pays for our drinks, and we stumble out into the night. This evening didn’t go according to plan, and the farther we drift up the sidewalk in silence, the stronger the disappointment uncoiling inside me.
Suddenly, a noise. We freeze in our tracks. Something is following us. I don’t even need to look at him to know. We’re both thinking the exact same thing. Footsteps behind us. Lots of them.
“ ‘Simply the best!’ ”
A guy is singing Tina Turner, and I know without turning that it’s the barfly. And considering the wild laughter echoing down the street behind us, he’s brought backup.
“I told you not to trigger him,” I mutter to Esteban.
“Maybe they just wanna hang out.”
“Yeah.”
“Split them down the middle?” he suggests, wiggling his fingers.
We’re thinking the same thing. There must be four of them. Two each. Exactly what I need to release the tension simmering away inside me. I promised Lewis I’d be a good girl, but where is he now when I need him? What about his promises?
It takes me a split second to decide.
I slow my pace, dropping back to signal to Esteban that I’m good to go.
As soon as a hand settles on my shoulder, I spin around.
Let’s get this show on the road.
“You again?”
Esteban is primed to lunge, ready to pounce on the first guy to move. I home in on the bearded guy. He looks like a frigid little hipster.
“I didn’t appreciate your tone, earlier.”
He squares his shoulders, and I look him up and down. He gives my buddy a quick once-over and gestures to his crew.
Just as I predicted, the hipster makes a play for Esteban, and I deliver a swift kick to his kneecap before slipping behind him and high-kicking him in the small of his back.
Esteban charges him, snowplowing him into my fist, and when the guy’s jaw snaps under my hand, all my stress comes pouring out of me. He started it.
I don’t linger too long, stepping over his body and rushing at the next in line, a tall guy who looks like the perfect challenge.
This one crumbles way too fast, too, the booze dampening his reflexes, and I bat back a flicker of disappointment.
I expected more from you, man. I strike twice between the ribs, finishing him off with an uppercut to the stomach that has him doubled over and puking at my feet.
I leap back just in time to avoid any stains, sandwiched between Esteban and the guy who tried to pick me up, intercepting the hook that was meant for Esteban.
It hits me right on the brow bone, and for a moment I see stars, swaying on my feet as my ex yanks me back behind him.
When Esteban lands a sucker punch, the guy crumples to the ground, clutching his head before he staggers to his feet and stumbles off back down the road.
It took barely five minutes to clean up. Once I’m satisfied we’re done here, I bend over to clutch my knees and hurl all over the sidewalk.
I wipe my mouth clean. “That it?”
I’m breathless from the excitement of it all, my head pounding from the punch. I sweep a hand over my face and check my palm. Blood. I swear under my breath.