by Mia Ford
In his teenage years, Kyle had been a problem child following his father’s death, from what I gathered, committing robberies and assaults with a larger group. His current employer, the mechanic, pulled him off the streets and gave him an opportunity to turn his life around after he caught Kyle stealing. All this happened nearly ten years ago, but…
I frown. “I don’t think it matters. A record is a record, and you’ll never get away from it.”
Kyle eyes me with that considering look that he tends to get when he hears me talking about the police. I know he wants to ask; I’ve never spoken much about my life before the Roughshod Rollers, and Kyle isn’t the only one curious. But he doesn’t say anything, just nods in agreement and takes a sip of the beer I slide over to him.
“Anyway, we got distracted,” he says. “Why do you look like you could crawl straight back into bed?”
“Because I could, given half a chance,” I groan. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I’ve been running on caffeine most of the day but I think I’ll be sick if I smell any more coffee. I just have to get through the next few hours, then I can sleep.”
“Rough,” Kyle says sympathetically. “Why couldn’t you sleep?”
“Dreams,” I say shortly, making it clear that it isn’t something I want to talk about.
Kyle nods and doesn’t press further. It’s what I like most about my friendship with Kyle; the man is good at knowing when he needs to back off.
Though, from my attitude alone, he’s probably guessed what’s going on. I only ever get harsh like that when I’m speaking about Jessica Russell. And Jessica is the one thing I don’t speak about…with anyone.
Sometimes, I wish I could just forget her, I think as someone catches my attention, looking for a drink. There are moments when I think I have forgotten her, when all I concentrate on is my job, the Roughshod Rollers and, more recently, the renovations we have thrown ourselves into doing. Then I open my wallet, and her damn picture is still in there because I haven’t worked up the courage to toss the thing in the trash, where it belongs.
I constantly tell myself that I’m being ridiculous. It’s been three years. It’s a long time to still be hung up over an ex. I should have stored away all the memories I have of Jessica by now, and forgotten that part of my life ever existed. I should have moved on, fallen in love with someone else and made some new, happier memories.
Three years later, though, I still can’t even look at another woman without comparing her to Jessica. I’m stuck in a constant loop of memories, trapped by my own longings and confusion about what exactly happened to us. I’ve never understood how we fell apart so quickly, leading to the final argument that ended our relationship for good. Jessica took her stuff and ran, disappearing so quickly that my head spun. Before I knew it, everything she owned was gone and I was left only to wonder what had happened.
I still haven’t figured it out. Sometimes, when I think about it, I remember that she got cagey in the weeks leading up to our breakup, as though she was hiding something. She had been snappy and anxious. But she had also been unwell, so I put her attitude down to that and tried my best to help her, despite her suddenly not wanting me there.
Then we argued. It was over the stupidest thing. She didn’t want take-out for dinner, but I was working late, and, with her sick, we had no choice. Somehow, that argument blew out of proportion until we were yelling at each other, throwing out insults and hurtful statements that were only half true.
Then she was gone.
There’s the sound of shattering glass in the corner and I start, returning abruptly to the present. I was filling a glass, my body moving on autopilot while my mind was far away. I shake myself; now isn’t the time to do this. As tired as I am, I still have a job to do.
“Hey!” I call, rounding the bar. The guy who dropped the glass looks up, guilt plastered over his face. He hasn’t been here for very long, but the way he’s swaying tells me that he has already had a few drinks. No doubt he started drinking long before he got here. “What happened?”
“Heee did it!” the man slurs, pointing to his friend.
The other man looks outraged; he’s far more sober than his friend, and he’s leaning back with his own drink. I sigh, already seeing where this is going.
“Fuck you!” the friend says, shooting to his feet.
“Watch it,” I warn, mindful of the glass on the floor; the last thing I need is to have to send someone to the hospital to get stitches.
The two men ignore me and I pinch the bridge of my nose. Then I turn and catch Kyle’s eye. He grins and stands, making his way toward me.
He doesn’t say anything. He just comes up behind me and looms over everyone, dropping his expression into a dark look. As soon as the two men notice, they snap their mouths closed and drop back into their seats.
This isn’t the first time that I’ve used Kyle’s enormous height and muscled bulk to my advantage. More than once, I’ve joked that I need to employ him officially as a bouncer. He’s always joked back that he wouldn’t take the job, because then he wouldn’t get to drink.
“Right,” I say pleasantly. “Now, can someone tell me what happened?”
The drunk guy sinks lower in his seat.
“Dropped my drink,” he mutters.
“If you do it again, I’m going to have to kick you out,” I warn. “Now, can the two of you please move? I need to clean up this glass.”
The men were gone before the last words left my mouth. I snort.
“Intimidating as always,” I say to my friend.
“They’re just fucking cowards,” Kyle says easily. “Want some help?”
“It’s fine, it won’t take too long,” I say, shaking my head.
I clean up the glass, wiping up the spilled alcohol (the bastard spilled almost an entire drink), and head back to the bar. There are several people waiting now, some more patiently than others. Kyle is sitting back on the stool, nursing his drink, occasionally glancing at the door as he waits for Allison and her friend.
“Maybe her friend just doesn’t want to come,” I suggest as I pass him.
“Nah, they’re on their way,” Kyle says, waving his phone. “They’ll be here soon. Allison’s got the car.”
I grin. There’s still something amusing about seeing the small car Allison and Kyle bought together. It’s not tiny but it isn’t large, and watching Kyle squeeze himself into it is hilarious. It’s also a little weird; in all the time I’ve known him, Kyle has only ever driven his motorbike.
“So, will you be good for tomorrow?” Kyle asks.
“Tomorrow?”
As soon as I say it, memory hits. We’re meant to be taking down some walls tomorrow. Now that the founder’s house is back in our hands, kindly donated by the sheepish authorities for our use as long as we fix it up and pay minimal rent, we’ve all been doing our best to work hard on it. Even Tom Green has turned up once or twice, taking a hammer and swinging it with all his might. Some of the others have wondered if the only reason he comes is to take his anger out on something that won’t swing back.
“Yeah, I’m good,” I say. “I haven’t had time to look at it this week. How is the work going?”
“Not much left,” Kyle says with a grin. “Some of the builders are starting to look at laying concrete.”
I grimace. The original flooring was motheaten wood panels; my foot went through one board last year, twisting my ankle and putting me on crutches for a few weeks.
“I’m just glad the work has been quick,” I say.
“Got a lot of people to help,” Kyle says, draining his beer. “Everyone’s pitching in. We can use the money to get materials soon. Fucking Alan keeps talking inflated prices for his help, though… We’re not going to ask him for help.”
I laugh. We have several builders in the Roughshod Rollers, and many of them have put their hands up to do the work at a discounted price. It doesn’t surprise me, though, that some of them are taking the opportunity to
get paid more than they normally would.
“Alan’s always been an opportunist,” I agree. “He joined the Roughshod Rollers for prestige.”
Kyle snorts and then laughs loudly. Several people look over curiously.
“Fuck that!” he crows. “He must be a fucking idiot if he thinks we get anything more than dirty looks!”
“I think he’s realizing that,” I smirk. “I won’t be surprised if he quits before long.”
Kyle’s phone buzzes. He glances at it and smiles.
“Allison’s here,” he tells me. “With her friend. Be nice to her, yeah? Allison said she’s nervous,” he grins. “Apparently she’s nice. You never know…”
I give him a tight smile. Kyle makes jokes like that all the time, and I know he doesn’t mean anything by them. I also know that there’s a part of him that hopes that I might like one of the girls he teases me about enough that I’ll forget Jessica and everything that happened between us.
Unfortunately, that’s wishful thinking.
The door opens. Kyle perks up immediately, and I glance over. It’s Allison, her shoulders thrown back, her eyes locking on Kyle the moment she enters. She grins and waves wildly. I manage a smile and a small wave back; it’s only been a few months since everything that happened, but I’m finally starting to forgive all the trouble Allison caused Kyle.
There’s someone behind her. Allison is tall, so the other woman is hidden in her shadow, obviously worried about being here. I wonder how Allison managed to convince her to come out if she was that shy. I roll my eyes and turn away, noticing that someone up the bar is trying to catch my attention.
By the time I turn around again, Allison and her friend have made their way to Kyle. The couple are kissing each other, and I look away, turning my attention to the woman Allison has brought with her, instead. I notice, first, the awkward look on her face, caught as the third wheel while her friend greets her boyfriend.
Then I get a good look at her.
The world falls away. The sounds around me fade until it’s no more than white noise, buzzing annoyingly in the background. Somewhere, in the corner of my eye, I can see someone waving to get my attention, but I can’t bring myself to tear my eyes away.
She isn’t looking at me, giving me only her side profile. Her hair isn’t as long as it used to be. And she looks tired and drawn, older than my memories paint her. But that doesn’t matter. She’s still slim and a little shorter than average, her face soft and round. Her blue eyes dart toward Allison; they aren’t as bright, but I had long ago memorized their almond shape and long lashes. I wouldn’t forget her face. I have been dreaming about her for three years, remembering and dissecting every part of our relationship as I try to figure out where everything went wrong so quickly. Not a day has gone by, in these three years, where I haven’t thought about her at least once, her face dancing across my memories as though to torture me with something I can never have. Her blonde hair and bright blue eyes haunt me.
“Jessica…”
The name slips from me without my permission. It’s too quiet to attract any attention, though. I’m frozen where I stand.
Then she looks up. Long lashes lower over her light blue eyes, pale even in the dim lighting of the bar. Her gaze meets mine.
My breath catches and the glass that’s in my hand slips through my fingers and smashes on the floor.
Jessica
“Really?” I ask with a sigh, wincing as my friend pulls on a particularly vicious knot. “This is so much trouble. I thought we were just going to a bar?”
“And I thought you were interested in meeting someone,” Allison counters, frowning in concentration as she works a brush through my hair. “You aren’t going to attract any attention with this rat’s nest.”
I grumble but subside. I haven’t been looking after my hair very well recently, and I have the tight knots to prove it. It’s hard to find the time to give my hair a good scrub though, when I have a very active three-year-old running around my ankles twenty-four-seven. It’s one of the reasons why I chopped off my previously long, blonde hair; short hair is easier to manage when I have very little time to care about it
I sigh and concentrate, instead, on carefully applying face cream, trying not to wince too much as Allison tugs on the roots. She isn’t gentle with the brush at all. Why did I give it to her, again? Right, because she claimed she could do something with my hair. At this rate, the only thing she’s giving me is a headache and every reason not to go out tonight.
“Come on, Jessica,” Allison says, seeing the expression on my face and guessing the direction my thoughts have taken. “You’ve been putting this off for weeks. You don’t even have to do much. Just sit with us and have a few drinks, have a little chat and then we’ll take you home.”
“But what about Owen?” I try.
“Hazel is here,” Allison reminds me. “She’s in the kitchen with Owen right now, giving him dinner. You don’t have to worry about him.”
Hazel Watson is twenty-one years old and she’s been my babysitter for the last year. She’s good with kids and she’s picked up babysitting as a part-time job while she does a child care certificate. Owen Russell, my son, adores her.
“Yeah,” I grumble.
Allison gives my hair one last tug and grins. “There!”
I look into the mirror. Last year, I got tired of always brushing my long hair out of my eyes, so I cut it to my shoulders. Somehow, Allison’s torturous brushing has tamed it into neat, straight lines that frame my face.
“Thanks, it looks good,” I say. “Now, get out and let me finish getting ready.”
Allison laughs and leaves the room, grinning. I’m constantly amazed by how quickly we became friends again after losing contact for so many years. I’m glad; Allison’s friendship has been one of only two bright spots in my otherwise dark life.
It doesn’t take me long to finish getting ready, and I head to the kitchen when I’m done, shoes in hand. Allison is standing at the table, chatting with Hazel, when I enter. Owen, who has a bowl of ice cream in front of him, half of it smeared across the table and his face, looks at me with wide brown eyes.
“You look pretty, Mommy!” he shouts.
“Thanks,” I say with a soft smile, kissing him gently on a clean part of his forehead.
Owen, his hair as blonde as mine and his large brown eyes the same glittering shade as his father’s, is the only other brightness in my life. I don’t want to imagine where I would be without him.
“Be good for Hazel,” I tell him.
“I will!” he exclaims, waving his spoon in the air. I wince at the splatter of ice cream that hits the floor.
“Let’s go,” I say to Allison. “Before I change my mind.”
“Too late for that!” she says cheerfully, pushing me out the door as Owen and Hazel wave.
The drive to the Anchor Bar is filled with Allison’s chatter, excitedly telling me about the people that I might meet. I tune her out when she starts speaking about Kyle, however; whenever she speaks about her boyfriend, she’s always full of gushing praise for him and the fact that he gave her a second chance after all the crap she put him through.
It’s nice. Kyle is definitely a better person than I was. Sometimes, I wonder if I would have also given out a second chance if I had known where my life would end up after everything…
I shake my head. No sense thinking about it. The past is done and gone.
The Anchor Bar isn’t as seedy as I’ve been imagining. I can see several people going in and out the door, and, as I get out of the car, I can hear the beat of heavy music. The building looks cared for and no one appears overly drunk. Yet. It is only nine-thirty.
Allison strides forward confidently, and I follow in her shadow, suddenly anxious. It’s been a long time since I went out anywhere. The last time was with… I push the thought away. Now isn’t the time.
It isn’t hugely crowded, but there’s a decent amount of people in here. Several
of them are congregated by the bar; there’s a large, hulking man on a stool that has to be Kyle; she hasn’t been exaggerating his height, it seems. The bartender is turning away from Kyle as I peer around, tending to others at the bar, and I follow Allison as she makes her way to her boyfriend, weaving expertly through the people around us.
“Hey,” Allison says.
“You guys took a while,” Kyle laughs. He grins at me and holds out a massive hand. “I’m Kyle.”
“Jessica,” I reply. “It’s good to finally meet you.”
“And you,” Kyle says.
Allison smiles, pleased, and leans up to kiss Kyle. I cough politely and look away, feeling a little like a third wheel. I try to find somewhere, anywhere else to look.
Then I notice the bartender standing nearby, looking our way.
No, looking at me.
Our eyes meet, blue on hazel. His expression is frozen, and a glass slips from his fingers, shattering on the ground. Kyle and Allison jump apart, startled.
“Grant!” Kyle exclaims. “You alright, man?”
Grant Johnson blinks and then nods, looking pointedly away from me. My breath catches. His broad shoulders fill in the stiff shirt he’s wearing, and he still has that rough beard that I used to love rubbing my cheek against, giggling against the feel of the short hairs tickling my skin. I look up into his eyes. His brown eyes were once so expressive. Now they’re closed off, the wariness slowly transforming into shocked anger. I suddenly realize just how tall he is; he’s always been tall, but now, standing over me as I sit at the bar, his height is even more obvious.
My stomach drops. I knew this was a bad idea.
“Yeah,” he says, then turns away to get a cloth. “It’s nothing.”
Nothing… I almost want to laugh. “Nothing” is right. After all…Grant and I broke up three years ago, and this is the first time I’ve seen him since I left him.
There’s definitely “nothing” there anymore.
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