For Keeps. For Always.

by Haley Jenner

  She ain’t ready.

  “How will I know if she’s ready?”

  I want to kick myself for asking this asswipe for advice, but he’s making more fucking sense than I can muster in the clusterfuck that is my feelings for Henley Wright.

  Dropping his face into his palm, he shakes his head. “Is she here?”

  I frown. “Clearly not,” I bite out.

  He stares at me for a brief second, waiting for his point to hit. “When she’s with you, and she’s willing to stay with you, she’s ready to compromise a little more to make it work. Until you’re both willing to put your fears aside, you’re bound to fail. Stop fucking demanding her to love you the way you want her to.”

  He gives me his back, moving back to the hidden bunk. He pauses as he reaches it, glancing over his shoulder. “You’re right. Someone in my empire has paid you, and your work here is finished. So get the fuck off my tour bus, photographer-man. I pay people to pretend to like me, but you obviously suck at the job.”

  I bark out a laugh, standing to retrieve my bags. “There’s hope for you yet,” I mumble.

  “If you need me to serenade your Henley with my soulful voice and mesmerizing eyes, let me know. Can’t promise she won’t fall in love with me, though.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a twat?” I raise my voice as I begin to descend the stairs.

  26

  HENLEY

  AGE 26

  I taste the concoction I’ve spent the last hour perfecting. A personal twist on sours that needs a pinch more lime juice.

  “Love to take you out for a drink.”

  I look up, a slice of lime held loosely in my hand. “I work in a bar. If I wanted a drink, I’d just pour one.”

  He laughs, the sound both flirtatious and frustrating.

  “Come on, baby, don’t be like that.”

  I frown. “I’m not your baby.”

  Hands held up in surrender, he blinks in apology. “Didn’t mean to overstep. You’re cute as fuck, can’t blame a guy for trying.”

  He’s genuine in his words, and I sigh. “I don’t mean to be rude. It comes naturally. I’m just not interested in starting anything right now.”

  The corners of his lips pull up, and if I wasn’t hell-bent on rejecting him, maybe I could appreciate the handsomeness in his face.

  “Why’re you buggin’? I wasn’t promising marriage. Just wanted to talk to you.”

  He elongates the A in talk, the L dropped away in replace of a W. He’s born and bred in the city that never sleeps.

  Just wanted to talk to you.

  That’s why I joined that stupid app. To put myself out there. I may have had zero intention of actually following through, but a gorgeous stranger has landed in my lap. More, my bar.

  He’s cute. Long blond hair lying messily over his shoulders, eyes somewhere between a green and brown. Not quite hazel, but not definitive in their coloring. He has a nice smile, one that stretches the expanse of his face, thick and healthy smile lines carved into his clean-shaven jawline.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Harry.”

  Twisting the lime in my hand, I watch him, his full grin moving into an awkward laugh. “Gonna tell me your name?”

  “Henley.”

  “Different.”

  I shrug. “Harry, I’m gonna buy you a drink, and by buy you a drink, I’m gonna give you one on the house. Your reaction will determine if I give you another.”

  A raise of his eyebrow challenges me, and I mirror the gesture, squeezing the lime into the glass I’d been mulling over before sliding it his way.

  “What if I hate it?”

  I shrug easily. “You’ll obviously have to find another bar to drink at.”

  A loud bark of laughter echoes along the empty bar. I watch eagerly as he picks up the glass, lifting it silently in cheers before taking a generous sip.

  His eyes shine with pleasant shock. “Holy fuck, Henley. This might be the best sours I’ve ever had, and I’m not just blowing smoke to try to get you to fuck me.”

  “Thanks.” I laugh. “I think. People sub ingredients on the cheap, or they use college marketed mixers. It’s blasphemy. Cocktails are an art.”

  “Well.” He takes another hefty swallow. “You should be revered.”

  “They should also be sipped,” I tell him, my brows pinching together. “Not slung like a shot.”

  Tipping the last mouthful of my hour's work down his throat, he places the empty glass in front of me gently.

  “You said you’d buy me another . . .” The side of his mouth quirks upward.

  “We’ll share a simple beverage, and if we decide our conversation hasn’t yet finished, maybe I’ll let you buy me one.”

  As he leans back on the barstool he’s perched upon, his entire face lights up in amusement. “Has anyone ever told you you’re quirky as fuck?”

  Brooks's smile flashes across my eyelids as I blink, and I distract myself by pouring two shots of tequila. “It’s a curse.”

  He takes the salt on offer, dusting a small line across his hand as I move his shot toward him. “I’d say more of a gift.”

  Licking the salt off my skin, I tip the shot back, grimacing as I grab a slice of lime to suck on. “If you say so.”

  I watch the line of his throat swallow as the tequila rushes down it, an almost indecipherable scowl at the taste before he sucks leisurely on a wedge of lime.

  “Lick, shoot, suck.” I pour another, tapping my shot glass against his before swallowing the potent liquid.

  “You’re a native New Yorker,” I say on a grimace.

  “What gave me away?” he whispers, sliding the second empty shot glass across the bar.

  “Buggin’,” I tell him. “And the accent. Tawwk,” I attempt to replicate the cadence in his voice, and his head tips back with a loud laugh aimed toward the ceiling.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Nowhere,” I tell him honestly. “Everywhere.”

  “You’re American,” he pushes, and I nod and shrug, the answer noncommittal.

  “I live like a gypsy. I belong nowhere.”

  He frowns. “You have to belong somewhere. A place in the world you can be unequivocally you.”

  How do I tell him the place in the world I feel unequivocally me isn’t a location. It’s not anywhere you can pinpoint on a map.

  It's someone.

  A person.

  A heart of another that brings me peace. That also brings me turmoil.

  “Nowhere,” I lie.

  “Family?” he prods.

  “None.”

  “Fuck,” he spits, leaning over the bar. “That might be the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Unease crawls up my spine, settling in my gut and spreading through my chest uncomfortably.

  He meant his words without pretense and without judgment, but I can’t stop myself from feeling attacked. His statement slices open a scarcely healed wound, and my body stutters at the pain.

  “I meant no offense,” he backtracks. “You’re not sad. Just that you’re alone in this big, bad fucking world.”

  “I don’t need your pity,” I argue quietly. “Ever thought that some people choose to be alone? That it’s preferable to being disappointed by people who claim to love them.”

  I hate how candidly he watches me. Digging into my psyche with his knowing eyes.

  “Stop it.” I turn away. “Stop attempting to see into me. I don’t know you, so stop trying to read me.”

  Hands held up in surrender, he blinks in apology. “Whoa. Chill, Henley. You’re spazzing out on me for no reason right now.”

  My fists clench, and I take a purposeful breath. “This is why I prefer to be alone. People put me on edge.”

  “Apology accepted,” he offers, and hands to my face, I grunt out a laugh.

  “What time do you get off?”

  “I finished half an hour ago.”

  Hands lifted in victory, he cheers. “Let
me buy you a drink. I promise only mind-numbing surface conversation. No deep dives.”

  “Why?” I ask him. “I’m clearly a headcase.”

  “You’re sweet to look at, and you’re the most interesting person in this bar.”

  Anyone ever told you you’re beautiful?

  More people should tell you that.

  “Sure. Why not?” I shrug, grabbing my bag and settling on the barstool next to him.

  The next half an hour is spent exactly how he promised. Easy, surface conversation. Harry doesn’t dive into my past. He talks about the weather. About his work. He asks me about the countries I’ve visited.

  “I’ve never been out of the country,” he admits sheepishly.

  I balk, my intoxicated self grabbing onto his forearm in dismay. “What? Harry, no! You have to see it. The world. You have to see it.”

  “Where are you going next?” he asks, the words slurring together slightly.

  His hand rests on my arm, an inconspicuous movement to keep me tethered. I should pull away. But after two years of celibacy, it’s nice to feel even the basic touch of a man.

  “I don’t know,” I state excitedly. “That’s the best part. I decide just as my feet begin to get itchy. Maybe I’ve met someone on my travels who talks of their home in a warm regard that I can’t ignore. Maybe I blindly drop my finger on a map and follow that fate. Nothing is planned, Harry. Nothing. I’m free in the world, and no one can catch me. No one can hurt me.”

  I turn away from the sadness in his gaze. “Baby, who hurt you so badly to make you think loneliness is a goal?”

  “Everyone,” I confess drunkenly. “Everyone,” I whisper. “But mostly me.”

  “You?”

  “I’m my own executioner. Withdrawal is my safe place.”

  Harry shifts forward, lips ajar as his eyes settle on the frown at my lips.

  “Please don’t kiss me.”

  His tongue drags along his lips. “Why?” He moves closer again.

  “Because you’re not him, and when I see him again, nothing else, especially the feelings of others, seem to matter.”

  “What if I want nothing more than a simple kiss so you can’t hurt me?”

  I sigh, pulling back marginally. “My lips belong to another. They poison anyone else they touch.”

  “You’re drunk,” he argues.

  “I’m toxic,” I rebut. “He’s toxic. Together, we’re venom. A beautiful cancer.”

  “Let me help you forget then,” he pushes.

  I laugh. “You don’t think I’ve tried that? It causes me more pain than the reality of living without him.”

  “Then why are you apart?”

  I stand, finished with my rendezvous with this gorgeous stranger. “Because I don’t think I believe in love, and Brooks deserves more than that.”

  27

  BROOKS

  AGE 26

  “You sound tired.”

  Like her words have given me permission for the floodgates of exhaustion to open, I yawn unexpectedly. “I’m okay.”

  “Sweetheart.”

  “Mom,” I groan. “I’m fine.”

  “Brooks, you told us you’d be here four months ago.”

  There is accusation and pain in her voice, and my guilt burns the inner line of my throat, dripping all the way down to the pit of my stomach.

  “A job’s a job, Mom. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  She lets go of a small sigh after a pause of silence. “We haven’t seen you in years.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  She’s right. I’ve avoided Lake Geneva like it's the fucking plague because it’s soaked in memories of Henley. I’d breathe her in the moment I arrived and suffocate on her rejection the entire time. I feel that in my soul.

  “You could visit me in New York. I’ll be here for another month or so.”

  I pretend I can’t hear her silence. I sit quietly, pretending that the absence of sound isn’t loaded with disappointment.

  “We could definitely plan that,” she finally gives in.

  I knew she would.

  She’s my mother.

  She may not understand my reservation at coming home, but she’ll accept it in her own way.

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Jesus, Mom.”

  “It was just a question, Brooks.”

  It’s my turn to sigh.

  “No, Mom. I haven’t fallen hopelessly in love since the last time I spoke to you with plans to marry and procreate.”

  I’d love to tell her that I am hopelessly in love. But by hopelessly, I’d mean miserably.

  If I did that, I’d have to divulge that my heart has devoted itself to someone who I seem to hurt without intention.

  I’d be forced to confess that the person I hurt also breaks me in the same way.

  My heart may be steadfast in its love for Henley Wright, but it also seems committed to our heartbreak. My heart has become addicted to the way she cracks me open. It’s hooked on her even knowing that I cause her pain.

  “You work too hard,” my mom says, oblivious to the ache in my chest. “You’re young. You should be out having fun.”

  “Mom,” I gripe. “Please, stop.”

  She laughs. “Oh, it’s not like I don’t know you’re out there sowing your wild oats.”

  “I’m about to hang up on you.”

  “Email me your hotel details. Dad and I will plan a visit over the next week or so.”

  “Will do.”

  “And Brooks,” she adds. “We expect you to take time off. We’ve seen New York enough in our lives. We’ll be there to see you.”

  There’s that knife of guilt, this time aimed straight for my jugular.

  “Love you, Mom.”

  “Love you too, kiddo.”

  I fall back onto my bed the moment she disconnects, groaning to the ceiling in frustration.

  My mother has this art of making me miss her, resent her, need her, and want to run far, far away from her all at once.

  I push thoughts of our conversation out of my head, but the moment I do, it filters back in unwelcome.

  You work too hard. You should be out having fun.

  The problem is, she’s not exactly wrong.

  I haven’t been intimate with anyone since the night of Addy’s wedding. In Siberia, it was easy enough since a romantic notion of waiting for Henley had buried itself within me. Farther down, in the parts of my soul I refuse to acknowledge, I knew the thought of her waiting for my return was farcical.

  I’d pushed her over the edge once again. She didn’t put up much resistance, but I know I should’ve left her alone. I went searching for her with a fiery need to touch her, to soothe her.

  It didn’t take a genius to know that after my disappearing act, she’d go to ground on me.

  I left her with nothing but my marks on her skin, my seed inside her, and a goodbye note on hotel stationery.

  Not my finest moment.

  On tour, women surrounded us. I couldn’t take a step sideways without some groupie throwing herself at me.

  It just felt skeevy.

  They didn’t want me.

  They wanted the guy who employed me.

  I was confident enough in myself that if I wanted my dick wet, I could manage it on my own.

  It’s just that no one tempted me to the point I felt the need to put in the effort.

  Or more, maybe my heart is now so scarred, it’s numb from all emotion, including lust.

  I’d be lying if I said that was true.

  I still jerk my dick often enough to know I’m not numb to desire.

  I see her on the back of my eyelids, pressed up against the elevator wall. I can almost feel her—if I concentrate hard enough—squeezing my cock so tight it jerks with want.

  Dragging a hand roughly down my face, I inhale heavily.

  Sowing my wild oats.

  Fuck it. She’s right.

  My mother thinks I should be out fuck
ing around, and she’s fucking right.

  Grabbing my phone, I download some app the guys were raving about on the tour bus. Some whacked-out technology that collates matches in your area to message in the hope you’ll score a quick and easy fuck.

  I set up a basic profile, taking a lackluster selfie to include.

  I scan through potential matches, nothing stirring even the slightest temptation.

  I don’t know what I’m looking for.

  I know what I’m not looking for.

  I don’t need to admit that I swipe left on women who don’t look enough like Henley.

  I swipe left on women who look too much like her.

  I’m narrowing my options down to a convenient zero percent of the population. Self-sabotaging like a rock star.

  And then her face is there.

  Her long dark hair.

  Her perfectly imperfect scatter of freckles.

  Her sad eyes.

  On this ridiculous app.

  In my area.

  Fuck.

  I turn the screen away, certain I’m seeing shit that isn’t there.

  Turning it back, I pinch my nose.

  Henley it reads.

  The likelihood I won’t message you is high. That includes replying. It’s nothing personal.

  I smile.

  So quirky.

  So Henley.

  I know I should swipe left.

  I know the right thing to do is to let sleeping dogs lie.

  We’ve lived that life.

  We’ve failed.

  More than once.

  We’ve both been served more pain than we deserve.

  And at the hand of one another, no less.

  But as my thumb meets my screen, I swipe right without hesitation.

  The ball is now firmly in her court.

  Sitting.

  Waiting.

  She can ignore it.

  Or she can reach out.

  I close the app, panicked that I’ll let myself fall into the arms of another woman. In self-preservation. To prove to myself that I don’t need Henley to reach out.

  I feel sick with regret.

  Not because I don’t want her.

  Not because I don’t want to see her.

  But because I want it too much.