by Natalie Ward
“Hey, Sarah,” I force out when she answers.
“Oh, so you are alive then?” she says, sarcastically. She sounds drunk and that alone is enough to convince me that I do not want to do this right now.
“I am,” I stupidly say. “Have you had a good night?” It’s a ridiculous thing to ask and the laugh I get in response only confirms that.
“Well, it could’ve been better,” she says as the sound of glasses clinking fills the background. “But then again, maybe it was better this way.”
Her words sting even though I know I deserve them. “Sarah, I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry I was late getting to the bar. Sorry I missed the limo and wasn’t able to join you.”
“Yeah, but that’s the thing, Em,” she says, hurt in her voice. “You could’ve come and joined us, couldn’t you? You just chose not to.”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “That’s not true,” I say, even if it sort of is. I knew exactly where they were going, where I could find them. I could’ve gotten a taxi and gone to them.
But I didn’t and I know that’s only made me missing the start of the night that much worse. I don’t even know why I didn’t go. I’m not sure what it is that made me to stay in a bar where I knew no one, talking to a guy who probably has girls throwing themselves at him night after night.
Does Nick think that’s what I was trying to do by staying?
“Just as I thought,” she says, as I realise I haven’t answered her question.
I take a deep breath, knowing that nothing I say is going to fix this. “I’m really sorry, Sarah,” I start. “I was late, yes. Work obviously. And by the time I got to the bar you guys had left. I know it’s my fault I missed you and I know I could’ve come and joined you guys, but…it’s just…I’d had a shit day at work and I just didn’t feel up to it. Didn’t want to ruin your night…again.”
Sarah scoffs at my excuses, just as someone calls out her name in the background. “Yeah, I guess celebrating with your best friend after she’s gotten engaged makes no sense now, does it?” I open my mouth to respond that it isn’t like that but she doesn’t give me a chance. “I know work always comes first for you, Emma. That it’s more important than any of us; always has been.”
“Sarah…”
“No. You don’t get to do this, Emma. Not tonight,” she says, venom in her voice now. “You hurt me by not showing up. I could’ve lived with you being late, but not showing up at all. Who does that, huh? Who?”
“I don’t know,” I say, quietly.
“Someone who’s too selfish to think about anyone but themselves,” she spits out. “Someone who cares more about work and her career than her best friend, the best friend she’s known since high school.”
She stops and I’m not sure what to say because everything she’s thrown at me is the truth. Well, sort of. It’s not that I don’t think about anyone else. It’s more like I never stop thinking about work. It’s something that’s too important to me and something I’ve worked too hard for to just throw away because I want to get to a party on time. I don’t know why she can’t understand that. She was always so supportive throughout uni when I was studying. Why has that suddenly changed now?
“You know what,” Sarah says, her voice now cold. “I’m not sure I want you as my bridesmaid anymore.”
“What?” I breathe out, shocked. “Why would you say that?”
“Because,” she says, sending a tiny fissure of fear down my spine at where this is going. “Knowing my luck, you’d be on call on the day of the wedding and you’d have to go and everything would be ruined. And I just don’t want to take that risk, Emma.”
My heart sinks as I find myself collapsing onto a couch, soft leather giving way beneath me. “Why are you saying this?” I ask, tears threatening to fall. “You’re my best friend, Sarah.”
She gives a half laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Yeah, I used to think I was. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Sarah,” I plead. “Please, don’t do this.”
Cheers ring out on the other end of the phone just as she says, “I’ve gotta go. I hope you had a good night.”
Then the phone goes dead and the sudden weight of it in my hand feels like it’s going to pull me right through the floor.
“You okay?”
I look up and see Nick standing in the doorway. He has a concerned look on his face and I wonder how much of our conversation he’s heard. I can only shrug in response because obviously I’m not okay.
“Didn’t go so well then?” he asks, stepping into the room.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I wish I hadn’t called her.
He gives me a small smile and I watch as he walks towards the desk that sits at one end of the room. It’s neat, only a stack of papers on one side and a framed photo on the other side. It’s too far away to see clearly, but from here, it looks like a photo of Nick and a girl with long brown hair. They are both smiling, although neither of them is looking directly into the camera. He opens a drawer in the desk just as he catches me looking at the picture.
“My sister,” he says, picking it up. He walks towards me the photo in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. He hands me the photo before grabbing two glasses from a shelf. I glance at the picture while he pours whisky into both glasses.
I want to ask him about why she’s not here anymore. Where she went and why she left him to run this place on his own. They look so close in the photo that I can’t imagine something coming between them.
He takes a seat on the coffee table in front of me as he hands me a drink. Despite my earlier protestations about having had enough, I take it, throwing it back without a word. The liquid burns on the way down and I can’t help but cough.
Nick chuckles. “Easy,” he says, taking my glass as he pours me another. “This is the good stuff, it’s worth actually tasting.”
He hands me the glass again and this time I force myself to take a sip. I’m still looking at the photo in my hand, trying to work out which of them is older.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, glancing up.
I see him staring at the picture in my hand, his jaw tense. “She was,” he whispers, a trace of sadness in his voice.
I look up. “Was?”
Nick takes a large gulp of his whisky, swallowing hard before he finally looks at me. “She died,” he says. “About a year ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I immediately say.
Nick nods, not saying anything and despite the fog of alcohol it dawns on me why he was so pissed off earlier, when I mentioned about not really opening the bar. It’s not that he doesn’t want to; it’s more that he can’t. She must have been a part of this dream for him. The kitchen was her thing, he told me that, and then when she died, that part of the dream also died. The realisation makes me feel incredibly sad and really, really awful for the things I said to him earlier.
“Nick,” I murmur.
“Don’t,” he says, refilling our glasses. “Please, just don’t.”
I open my mouth to speak, but stop when I see the grief on his face.
Because this is different to work and right now, I have no idea how I’m supposed to act, or what I’m supposed to do, or any of things I should say to him. This just feels far too real compared to any other time I’ve ever had to do this.
Instead I settle with, “Do you want to talk about it?” Knowing how often people do, even when they pretend they don’t.
Grief isn’t something to be locked away and never discussed. Losing someone close to you is awful, but the harder part is everyone expecting you to move on without them. To let go and somehow pretend as though they never existed in your life in the first place. Telling someone that their loved one hasn’t survived is one of the toughest parts of my job, but it’s something I know I have to do. It’s why I needed to stay late tonight, why I missed the party.
Trying to explain that to Sarah though, she just wouldn’t get it. No one does, not until yo
u’ve lived it. Many times over.
“Tell me what happened,” he says, ignoring my question as he nods at the phone sitting beside me on the couch.
I exhale hard, knowing that this is the question I should be asking him. I open my mouth to speak, to ask him how he is, but it’s like he knows.
“You called her back?” he asks, forcing the conversation back to me.
I know it’s a coping mechanism. A way for him to avoid telling me too much about his sister and what happened to her. I wonder if he’s ever really dealt with her death. If he’s ever spoken of the grief he so clearly still feels.
“Em?” he says gently, leaning forward a little as he takes the photo from my hand and puts it on the table beside him.
It’s the first time he’s called me that and it’s said in such a strangely intimate way that it sends a shiver down my spine. It’s only now that I realise how close we are too. Me on the couch, him sitting directly opposite me on the table. His legs are practically on either side of mine, his hands holding the glass between his knees.
We’ve been closer, back out in the bar, but this somehow feels like so much more. I can’t even bring myself to look at him, staring at the floor between us as I try to work out what to say. But my eyes gravitate to his arm and even though the lighting is low, I can still make out the words.
…and now she’s free…
I exhale; wondering if being free is at all possible. “She was pissed, obviously,” I say, my eyes on the words.
“Did you tell her what happened?” he asks, taking another sip of his drink. I watch, mesmerised as his arm moves, the flexing of muscle, the tightness of his fingers around the glass. Somewhere, deep inside, an ache starts to develop that I don’t know how to explain.
“I told her I was late because of work,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. He’s right; it is nicer when I drink it this way.
“Did you tell her what happened today?” he asks.
I shrug and shake my head at the same time. “No, she wasn’t really up for listening.”
Nick finishes his whisky, putting the empty glass beside him before he leans closer, his fingers threaded together between his legs. “You sure?” he asks. “Or is that just what you think.”
I shake my head, my eyes still on the ink on his arm. “I don’t know,” I say flatly.
“I think you should try and explain it to her,” he whispers just as my fingers reach out and brush against the words…and now she’s free…
What do these words mean? I’m assuming the she refers to his sister, but what does he mean by her being free. Free of what? Was she sick and that’s why she died?
Nick makes a strange sound at my touch and when I glance up at him, I see he’s watching me. His eyes are focused and intense, and up close, I can now see they are dark blue. He swallows hard, opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
“And now she’s free,” I whisper, my fingers tracing the words.
“Emma,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel; deep and husky and laced with pain.
“Do you want…” I whisper, “…do you want to…” my words trail off as I stare into his eyes, which are now huge pools of blackness.
Nick shakes his head and then it’s impossible to tell which of us moves first. I’m sure it’s him but at the same time I feel myself lean closer, my lips as they touch his, the sweet taste of whisky on both of our mouths.
I don’t know why I’m doing this, what in the hell would possess me to lean forward and kiss this man who is practically a stranger. The only thing I can think is that after everything that’s happened today and tonight, I just need it. Need the distraction, the closeness, the chance just to feel something. Anything that doesn’t involve death, or work, or hurting my best friend because she doesn’t understand what I go through and I’m too stupid and stubborn to try and explain it.
“Emma,” he murmurs again, his mouth firm against mine.
I’m not sure if he’s asking me why, if he’s begging me to stop, or if he’s asking me permission. I don’t give him a chance to wonder as I fall back onto the couch, my fingers grabbing his t-shirt and pulling him closer so that he practically lies on top of me.
I don’t want to question anything right now.
I just want this.
~ Nick
I know exactly what she’s doing.
I know exactly what she’s doing and I also know it’s a mistake.
But fuck me; I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want this.
I absolutely do. I think I’ve wanted it for most of the night, even when I didn’t realise I did. A year ago I wouldn’t have even hesitated about making a move on her, and tonight, despite my better judgment, despite all the promises I made to myself, I still want it to happen.
But not like this.
Not when she’s so clearly trying to Band-Aid over whatever shit is going on inside her head with what I’m assuming she thinks will be some random hook-up in a bar.
I should stop things. Really.
“Emma,” I groan in a way that sounds totally unconvincing.
She says nothing, just moans as her hands slide up and over my t-shirt.
And as hot and as sexy as this all is, the only thing I can think right now is that I really need a shower. I must stink. But she doesn’t seem to care, her fingers digging into me as she pulls me, no holds me, against her. I can feel the desperation, the urgency and insistence in how she hangs on to me.
And as much as I know I should stop it, I don’t. Can’t.
Instead, I continue to kiss her, my mouth pressed hard against hers as my body falls against her. I feel her move beneath me, everything shifting to accommodate my shape.
We somehow fit together so perfectly it almost scares me, and I can’t help but wonder if she feels it too. If she can possibly feel how randomly connected we are, how different this is to any other woman before tonight. To that other night.
I want to stop and ask her, but I can’t. Not when her tongue is in my mouth and my hands are roaming all over her body.
The black dress she wears hugs her curves, the thick fabric molding against her tiny frame. My hand slides against her leg, my little finger just grazing the skin beneath her hem. She moans into my mouth, sending my heart into a free fall inside my chest and my hand on a slow path upwards.
My fingers graze the material covering her thigh, slowly moving higher until I feel the jut of a hipbone. My thumb presses against it, pausing for a second before continuing upwards, over the curve of her waist, the bumps of her ribcage and finally the softness of her breast.
The noise she makes nearly undoes me, pushing the voice in my head that’s telling me to stop to a place where I can no longer hear it.
“Nick,” she whispers, as her teeth nibble at my lip, her hands now buried in my hair, pulling it free.
I force myself to pull back a little, lift my body off hers so I can look at her. Emma’s face is flushed, her chest rising and falling heavily as she draws deep breaths into her lungs.
When her eyes meet mine, she smiles at me and it’s so different to every other time she’s done it tonight, almost as though it’s new and rare and just for me.
I dip my head and kiss her quickly, knowing my resolve to stop this is rapidly disappearing. Apparently my so-called rule about not getting involved with customers anymore has flown right out the fucking window too.
I go to lift my head again, but she stops me, her fingers tightening as she holds me against her mouth. I grin against it, knowing I am completely fucked right now and I have no chance of stopping whatever is about to happen between us. And zero care factor about it either.
Her hands slide down my back again until they reach my jeans and then slide under my t-shirt and up my body. The touch of her fingers against my skin drives me crazy and when she pushes my top up, only pulling away long enough to whisper, “Off,” I’m positive there’s no turning back now.
I smile as I lift up just
enough that she can pull it off me. Her eyes stay on mine as she throws my top across the room, neither of us caring where it lands. Her hands go to my chest, her eyes still on mine as her fingers graze against my skin, tracing lazy patterns against it.
“You okay?” I whisper.
“Mmm hmm,” she murmurs, leaning up to kiss my jaw. She pulls back, her eyes now roaming down my body, following her fingers as they trail a path down my chest.
But then she freezes. Her entire body going completely still beneath mine.
I watch as her eyes widen and as much as I want to explain, I can’t open my fucking mouth and say anything. My words have all gone, disappeared, fucked off and abandoned me.
This is karma, I’m absolutely sure of it.
But whatever it is, I’m not stupid enough to realise that she’s totally not okay anymore.
~ Emma
I can’t believe how good this feels.
I can’t believe how good it feels until it doesn’t. Until everything falls apart and I realise what a stupid idiot I am and what a complete and utter mess I’ve landed myself in.
As soon as I see it, all of the amazing things Nick is doing to my body, the things he’s making me feel, completely disappear. Because it’s impossible to miss, right there, right in front of my eyes. The inked lines on his skin I wondered about. How far up they went. All the way, it seems. All the way to his chest where they end with three letters: branded into his skin.
Amy.
And despite the lines connecting them, this word is totally different to the letters and words on his arm. Those are darker, almost tormented in the way the black inked lines are wrapped around them, as though whoever she is isn’t really free, despite what Nick thinks.
But the three letters on his chest are almost done in reverence, as though they are sacred and meaningful…and they are impossible to ignore.
The worst part about it all is I know who they belong to as well and what pisses me off even more is that I conveniently forgot all about her, even after she’d come into the bar tonight and all but thrown herself at him.
