by Natalie Ward
And with that, he slips out, silently closing my bedroom door and leaving me to wonder how it is that Nick got to me this quickly.
The Day After That Night…
~ Nick
I wake on the couch in my office, my neck stiff and my head pounding. I groan loudly, forcing my body up into a sitting position. I hear the thud of the bottle as it hits the floor and realise I must have finished off the rest of the $900 bottle of whisky after Emma left this morning. Explains the pounding in my head.
“Fuck,” I murmur, pushing up off the couch.
I pick up the photo off the coffee table, stare at the two of us. It was taken just after we’d signed the lease on this place, a day we marked by buying that very expensive bottle of whisky that’s now all gone.
Just like she is.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I walk towards my desk, replacing the photo in the spot it normally sits. I look around my office, as though trying to work out what the hell happened, as if I can’t remember every single second of it.
I remember it all. From the moment she walked in my door to the minute everything went to shit and she walked back out.
I also remember that I have no idea how I can even find Emma, much less explain to her what happened.
The cell phone on my desk rings, the noise like a freight train slamming into my head. I ignore it, letting it go to voicemail as I slide it into my pocket and head out to the bar in search of something to ease the pain in my head.
I contemplate a hair of the dog drink, but instead, opt for water and some painkillers. I need to go upstairs and take a shower, try and get some proper sleep before coming back to work tonight.
At this point, I’d love to just keep the bar closed, spend the night lying on the couch, nursing my hangover and my pride. But I know I can’t do that and as much as I might want to, I have to work.
I grab my jacket and keys, heading out the front door and turning left. I slide my key in the door next to the bar, the one that leads up to the open plan apartment directly above that I live in. As I do, I lift my shirt to my nose, wondering how bad it is.
But almost instantly I’m hit with the scent of her. The smell so unexpected it sends my body reeling with memories of everything that almost happened last night.
The phone call that we both knew she had to take. The overheard conversation and the hurt and sadness it put in her eyes as a result. Her fingers on my arm, tracing the lines of my tattoo, followed by her lips on mine, her fingers in my hair, mine in hers.
Her body beneath mine.
It’s hard to know exactly which one of us started things. I know I should’ve stopped it but I didn’t.
And then she’d seen the tattooed name, misunderstood the situation and everything had gone so incredibly wrong. Why the fuck hadn’t I said something, explained things?
“Fuck,” I say, slamming the door behind me, wincing at the noise. I stomp up the stairs, my footsteps echoing in the silence even as my mind goes over and over everything that happened from the second I walked into my office to the minute she ran out.
Despite knowing it was a mistake, I still didn’t stop things. I still kissed her, crawled on top of her and let her do whatever it is she wanted to do. Whatever it was she needed to do. Because as much as I know she was doing it because she was hurting, I also knew exactly how she felt.
I might like to pretend I’m okay or that I don’t need to feel that kind of connection or whatever, but it’s all bullshit. There was, is, a big part of me that needed her too. Needed that connection, that second of warmth that comes from being wrapped up in the arms of someone who knows exactly what real pain feels like.
And even though Emma has no idea about what had happened with me, I feel like she knew I needed that just as much as she did. That we were two lost souls, trying to mask our pain with the pain of someone else.
Or maybe it was all just a big mistake.
I don’t know.
By the time I get to the bathroom, the painkillers have kicked in and the pounding in my head has dulled to a low ache. I pull off my clothes and throw them in the laundry basket as I step into a hot shower, spending far longer than I should under the water.
Eventually the remnants of last night’s drinking and this morning’s hangover have gone and all I’m left with is an emptiness in my stomach that might be hunger, might be something else.
I pull on some track pants and a t-shirt before wandering to the kitchen in search of some food. Oscar meows loudly, winding his way around my legs to let me know he needs some too.
“Hey buddy,” I say, bending down to pat him. He offers up a purr, before walking towards his bowl to tell me it’s really food he’s after, not my affection. I shake my head at him even as I realise how stupid it is that I’m having some sort of imaginary conversation with a cat.
I spoon food into his bowl, my stomach retching a little at the smell. Then I turn and get some coffee brewing, pull out some left over Chinese from the fridge that I nuke in the microwave.
When my food and coffee is ready, I head into the living room, Oscar trailing behind me. We both park it on the couch, the cat snuggling up beside me as I lean over and switch on the TV. The screen fills with the inside of a hospital and I suddenly freeze, wondering what the fuck.
I glance at the cat, as though he will provide all the answers, but he’s already asleep. Taking a sip of coffee, I sit back; watch as the show continues, a bunch of over-acting doctors all running towards some doors as a trolley is wheeled inside.
It’s then that I realise I’m watching a TV show, fiction. I flick on the guide and realise it’s Grey’s Anatomy and despite having never watched this show in my life, I don’t change the channel.
Instead, I slide down on the couch to eat my leftovers and watch it, all the time trying to imagine Emma in this role.
Knowing I’m a fucking idiot for even letting myself do that.
But as I watch this ridiculous show, it gives me an idea, and as stupid as it might be, it somehow takes root, eventually growing into a full blown plan that will either leave me looking like a total idiot or somehow lead me back to her.
At this stage, I’ve got nothing to lose, nothing except the thing I find myself already missing, despite the fact I barely even know her.
“Fuck it,” I say, pushing off the couch and grabbing my phone.
~ Emma
It’s late by the time I wake up. I lay in bed, not moving as I stare up at the ceiling and try to work out if the pain in my head is from the alcohol, the lack of sleep, or crying most of the night. The lack of sleep is a familiarity I’m all too aware of, but the other two are not.
I roll over; see the glass of water and painkillers that Owen must have left sometime this morning. I sit up, reach for them and swallow a couple, grateful that he knows me so well.
The apartment sounds quiet; the only sound the low hum of the heating. I reach for my phone, wondering if there’s going to be anything new from Sarah, hoping there is and confused as to how I will feel if there isn’t.
As I open my purse though, a white napkin falls out, the list of pros and cons that Nick wrote for me last night fluttering into my lap. I pick it up, smoothing the paper gently as I look over the words he wrote.
getting to be happy
I wish it could be that easy. I wish it were as simple as saying, this is what I want to do and this is what makes me happy. In some ways I’m already doing it. I love medicine. I love studying it, practicing it and teaching it.
But as much as it pains me to admit this, I’m not happy. I haven’t been for a long time. Although I don’t know if it’s the job, the hours, or the death that’s causing this, I also don’t know the first thing to do to fix it either.
How can I give up everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve? How can I possibly throw it all away and do something else? And what would I do? Medicine is the only thing I’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember.
I groan, for
cing myself to get out of bed. As much as I’d like to stay here, I know with a week of nights coming up, I have to get up. My body is already going to be out of whack; I don’t need to make it worse by spending it in bed.
I walk into the kitchen, where I see the note left by the kettle.
Hope the head isn’t too sore.
We’ve gone to the movies, text if you want to join us - you are welcome.
But if you don’t
1. Call Sarah
2. Go and see Nick, the hot bartender
3. Don’t spend the day working!
Remember I love you.
O x
I smile at his words, even though I’m going to disobey all three of his commands. I know he means well, but really, he doesn’t understand things like I do. I can’t call Sarah, at least not now. My heart still hurts at the things she said to me last night. As much as I know I deserved them, I still never expected it to be that harsh. I never expected she wouldn’t want me to be a part of her wedding.
And seeing Nick is definitely not an option. While there might be a tiny part of me that wants to see him, embarrassment at everything that happened last night won’t let me. It’s bad enough that I threw myself at him the way I did, but to do it when I knew he had a girlfriend, when I’d met her earlier that night. That is a humiliation I have no intention of reliving.
No, things are better if I just chalk it up to yet another bad experience with a guy and move on. Regardless of how much my heart is telling me this one was different, that this one somehow meant more.
The best way for me to forget about everything that happened is to do what I always do on my days off. Work.
I brew myself some coffee, searching the fridge for some food while I wait for the water to heat. After finding some leftover Italian, I heat it in the microwave before grabbing my cup and heading back towards my room. But as I crawl into bed, I know I’m not going to do that either.
And I don’t, instead spending the entire day doing nothing but thinking about last night and all the things that did and didn’t happen.
How much I want to go back to his bar and see him, but can’t.
About A Week After That Night…
~ Nick
It’s a slow night, the rain that’s been pouring all week keeping all but the diehard customers away. By the time the last ones have cleared out, it’s just me and Tony left and it’s still an hour till closing time.
“You wanna head home?” he asks. “I’ll lock up.”
I shake my head as I grab a cloth to wipe down the tables. “It’s okay, you go,” I tell him. “I’ll do it tonight.”
I head over to the booths, grabbing the last of the glasses and wiping down tables before heading back to the bar. Tony is standing there watching me, arms crossed over his chest and a weird expression on his face.
“What?” I ask, moving behind the bar to drop off the glasses.
“I should be asking you the same thing,” he says, still staring at me.
I glance up; give him a look that I hope conveys whatever before I head back out to stack the chairs. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit,” he says. “You’ve been in a mood all fucking week, which has been bad enough, but volunteering to do everyone’s lock-ups? I mean I know you own the place, dude, but seriously what the fuck?”
I shake my head, not looking at him as I say, “It’s nothing.”
“Again, bullshit,” Tony says, emphasising the second word. “What the fuck is going on here, Nick?”
I ignore his comment, moving around the room as I stack chairs onto the tables and try to come up with some plausible explanation that he’ll buy. But I’ve got nothing because the truth is: there’s only one reason I’ve been in a mood, as he so eloquently puts it, and only one reason I’ve been staying back to lock up every night.
Emma.
I want to see her. And I’ve been waiting to see if she’ll come back.
Despite my rules, I want her to come back, hope she does so I can explain everything.
But I’m not about to tell him that and I’m certainly not about to explain that me doing lock-up every night is a perfect way to not only distract myself but gives me an excuse to stay until closing. I mean it’s not like my other plan has panned out at that well.
“Nick, dude?”
I stop and look up. Tony is wearing an expression that’s a mix between annoyance and total disbelief.
“What?” I ask, straightening.
“What the fuck is going on with you?”
I shrug. “Nothing.”
“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” he says. I watch as he grabs a couple of beers from the fridge, twisting off the caps before sliding one down the bar in my direction, the other staying in his own hand.
“Beer,” he says, pointing at the bottle he slid to me. “Drink,” he says, miming the action. “Fucking talk,” he adds, pointing at me this time.
I shake my head, walking over to the bar and grabbing the beer. I down half the bottle in one go, mostly because I’m not sure what else he wants me to do. Also because I don’t know what he expects me to say in response to his order.
“Nick, fuck, come on,” he says, when it’s apparent I’m not going to say anything. “What the hell is going on with you?”
I lower my beer, rest the bottle on the bar and finally meet his stare. Tony stares back at me for a second longer than I expect and then as though a light bulb of clarity goes off he finally smiles.
“Hol-y shit…you totally fell for her, didn’t you?”
I look away, finishing my beer before throwing the bottle towards the bucket at the back. The glass smashes, the sound echoing throughout the now silent bar. I turn back to Tony but he hasn’t moved, he’s still standing there, arms crossed, beer in one hand and a smug fucking smile all over his face.
“What?” I spit out at him.
He shakes his head. “I knew it. I knew you fucking liked her.”
“And?” I ask, almost accusingly.
“And nothing,” he says, shrugging. “It’s about fucking time is all. Jesus.”
I shake my head again, heading back to the dark and useless kitchen to grab an empty beer bucket. Tony says nothing more, just watches me as I switch out the full one behind the bar, walking it back to the kitchen for recycling, before walking back out to the bar again.
“Shit man, stop fucking staring at me,” I eventually say, his scrutiny becoming borderline annoying.
Tony chuckles a little now as though he’s finding all of this incredibly amusing. “So,” he says, putting his beer on the bar. “What’s the story with you and the tiny one then?”
“The what?” I ask, glancing up. Almost immediately I regret my reaction, the smile on Tony’s face telling me he knows so much more than he’s letting on.
“What?” he says, nonchalantly. “She is tiny. It’s not an insult.”
I exhale hard, my eyes closing as I silently beg for Tony to suddenly have an urgent need to leave the bar and fuck off home so I don’t have to deal with his shit any longer.
“Emma,” I state, forcing my eyes open. “Her name is Emma.”
“Course it is,” he says, taking another sip. “But my question was, what’s the story between you two?” He gestures towards me, as though I’ve got no clue what he’s talking about. I roll my eyes in response but it only makes his smile grow wider, the smug look on his face intensifying as he continues to watch me, waiting for answers.
“Nothing,” I eventually say, just wanting to end this interrogation. “There’s nothing going on alright.”
Tony says nothing for a bit, just watches me as I continue to clean up the bar, doing anything that means I don’t have to keep talking about this. But I can feel him watching me the whole time and even without looking, I know he can tell I’m full of shit. That it isn’t nothing between us. At least it wasn’t a week ago.
“What happened?” he eventually asks, a little
more sympathetically this time. I continue cleaning; doing far more than is normal for a lock-up. “Nick,” he says. “Come on man, talk to me.”
I finally stop. Tony is still watching me only the smugness has gone, replaced with something that might be concern. I shake my head again, know I’m going to regret this as I walk towards the bar, pull out one of the stools and take a seat.
“She saw the tattoo,” I tell him. Tony stares as me, his eyes flicking between my forearm and my face. “The other one,” I eventually say.
“Oh,” he says, brow scrunched. “Ohhhh,” he adds, a smile breaking out on his face.
“No, not ohhh,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Oh.”
“It was bad?” he asks.
“Really bad.”
“Did you explain?” he asks, the joking now over.
I take a deep breath, exhaling hard as I stare at the ink running up my arm. It’s not that I’ve ever regretted my tattoo, far from it. But this is the first time I’ve wondered if maybe I should have done it differently.
“Nick?” he asks, stepping closer.
We’re opposite each other now, Tony standing on one side of the bar and me sitting on the other. He’s the closest thing I have to a best friend and still I can’t bring myself to talk to him about this, about any of it. Even though he already knows so much because he was there too.
I shake my head.
“Why?” he asks, reaching for another beer for me.
I lift the bottle to my mouth and take a long pull. “I don’t know,” I tell him, my eyes on the bar. “It just…it just all went to shit.”
Tony grabs another beer for himself before walking around and pulling out another stool and sitting beside me. “Do you want to explain it to her?”
I nod, my eyes still on the bar.
He lets out a deep breath, finally getting it. “And that’s why you wait each night?” he asks.
