Homebound

by Alyssa B Cole

  Geez, I was a little rebel.

  O’Malley’s is located by the lake, right on the street running parallel to the shore. His place overlooks the lake, which stretches out far and wide, its end barely visible at night. It makes for a popular destination, but that’s not saying much in a small town where there aren’t many other options. Within ten minutes, I arrive there, the old neon signs still lit and ancient advertisements covering the windows. It’s funny to be here when I’m of legal drinking age. It’s funny to be here at all. It’s not like I’ll be staying long, though. The bar closes in forty-five minutes.

  Pushing the door open, I’m greeted by some old soft rock music and about a couple dozen men and women loitering around the dark bar. Others are probably on the deck overlooking the water in the back. The bar itself has been renovated, I see. Two tipsy girls dance on a small dancefloor. Lamps from the ‘70s have been replaced by cleaner blue shades. Old posters still decorate the wall, though, for both town events as well as classic films. Mr. Walter was always one for movies. He went to school for it, years ago. He’d been dismayed when the Blockbuster a few towns over closed.

  “Welcome to O’Malley’s!” a voice booms out over the chatter and music. I turn and see the man himself standing at a table to the right, a rag in his hand. The table has moist smears on it, and he wipes it one more time before glancing at me again. He pauses. “Abby?”

  I smile. “Hi, Mr. Walter.”

  “Well, what do you know?” He freezes. “Hold on. You’re able to drink now, right?”

  “I’m twenty-six,” I assure him.

  “No way,” he groans, rubbing his wrinkled face. “That can’t be. How long have you been gone?”

  “At least four years. Maybe five?”

  “I’m too old! Well, as long as you’re finally legal and not going to get me in trouble with the law, you’re welcome to stay.”

  “Thanks for your generosity!” I laugh. “And sorry about all those times before. I was a stupid kid.”

  He shrugs. “Teenagers don’t have much to do around here. I deal with the same things from other kids now. What can I get ya?”

  “Hmm.” I think about what I have in cash. “Maybe just a dirty martini?”

  “That’s a step up from the whiskey you used to try and snag,” he chuckles as I follow him to the bar. “How long are you in town for?”

  “About three weeks.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “Oh, just enjoying life a little. Slowing down. I needed a break from New York.”

  “Fair enough.” As he rounds the bar counter, a shatter pierces through the room. A chorus of wincing “Ooohs” follow. Mr. Walter sighs. “I’ll be back. Ethan, you wanna give Abby a dirty martini?”

  I stiffen, then look further into the bar. On the other side is Ethan Perry, serving someone on the far side of the counter his drink before looking first at Mr. Walter, then me. I lift my hand in an awkward hello.

  He waits a minute too long before saying, “Sure,” his expression blank. “Give me a second.” Ethan grabs a glass.

  Mr. Walter turns to me. “I forgot. You didn’t get along too well with him, did you?”

  “He was like an annoying older brother,” I say, shrugging. “It’s fine. We’ve grown up. Go clean up whatever mess they’ve made.”

  He excuses himself, shouting at everyone to be careful and watch for glass on the floor.

  The problem with going to a bar in a small town is that you see too many people you know. The good thing about going to a bar in a small town is that many of those people are too intoxicated to notice you much. At least, that’s what I think until I take a seat at the bar and the person next to me says, “Hey! I know you!”

  I don’t know him, though. He’s got a shaggy beard, red-rimmed eyes, and a beer belly. The man has one of those faces where he could be twenty or forty.

  “Umm…”

  “Didn’t we go to high school together?”

  “Maybe? When’d you graduate?”

  He mentions the year - two years before I graduated - and I realize it’s the infamous Nick Keith himself. He’s a far cry from the hockey star of eight years ago. I hadn’t had a crush on him - he was too much of a douchebag for that - but all straight girls had appreciated his looks, myself included. This guy looks like he parked himself at a bar right after graduation and never quite left.

  “I’m Abby Doyle,” I tell him. “You and I ran in the same circles for a while back then.”

  “Oooh,” he says, pointing at me. Then he boops me on the nose and laughs. “You haven’t changed much!”

  I’m not sure what to say to that, because he certainly has.

  A woman comes up to us. “Come on, Nick. The old man’s kicking us out since Liz threw her glass on the ground.” She’s a bit pudgy too from drinks, but her hair is perfectly curled and her makeup is on point. Even I, someone who barely uses much more than mascara and Chapstick, can appreciate that. I want her to teach me her ways.

  “Babe! It’s Allie!”

  “Abby,” I inform them.

  “I always thought you were hot,” Nick says, surveying me. It makes me wish I’d thrown on a jacket, despite how warm it is in here. “But Ethan here always told me to back off when I mentioned it around him.”

  I’d forgotten Ethan was bartending. He sets my drink in front of me and says with a calm smile, “You were a bad influence.”

  “I could’ve fought my own battles,” I say, but I’m too shocked to sound very indignant. I had no idea he’d done that.

  “You were my best friend’s little sister,” he says simply.

  Best friend. Were they still going with that title?

  “Geez, man!” Nick laughs. He stretches his arms out, groaning. I notice the Mark on his arm. Glancing over, I see the same Mark on the nameless woman. I think I went to school with her too, but I can’t think of her name. She looks at me sourly.

  “Hi, Abby,” she says, her words kinder than her tone. “Jen Wheeler.”

  “Oh,” I say, eyes widening. I’d totally blocked her from my memory. She was such a - “Good to see you.”

  She hums. “You look like you haven’t grown up much.”

  I give her a brittle smile. I might still be short and scrawny, but I know I’d gotten back at her a few times in high school. “You look like you definitely got older.” She doesn’t look that bad, but I can’t resist a dig.

  Her eyes flash, but Ethan says, “I think Mr. Walter asked you guys to leave for the night.”

  Jen hisses a curse at me before helping Nick off the stool and toward the door, a few friends following them.

  I sip my martini, giving her a side-eye when she tosses me one last glare.

  “See?” I tell Ethan, smiling. “I can take care of myself.”

  He shakes his head at me. “You’re crazy. You should just ignore her.”

  “I would, but that wouldn’t be as much fun. I don’t know why she acted so jealous. They’re soulmates - can’t think of two people more perfect for each other, too, by the way.”

  “I actually feel bad for her.”

  I raise a brow. “Really. Jen Wheeler?”

  “Sure, she acted like a Queen Bee, but she’s been into Nick since middle school. She got her wish to be with him, but he’s on a bad path, and he’s taking her down with him. I guess I really feel bad for both of them.”

  I take another sip of my drink. It’s good. Really good. “They need to get out of this town. It might do them some good.”

  “Maybe, but there’s a lot of good to Lake Redwood, too.”

  “Hmm. I guess.” I stare thoughtfully at my drink. “I do love the lake. I used to love to bike around it.”

  “Oh yeah. You used to tag along with me and Beth as soon as you had training wheels.”

  I laugh. “You remember that?”

  He grins, leaning forward. “Sure. You used to get mad because we’d tell you babies couldn’t come with us.”

  “You
have the memory of an elephant.”

  “Thanks?”

  I shake my head. “Anyway, thanks for helping me out, but you don’t have to, like, protect me or anything. I’m all grown up now. I no longer try to binge drink or grab a joint or anything like that. You don’t have to defend me or chase off my harassers.”

  “Hey, who said I was helping you? I was helping them get out of here before you tore them a new one.”

  I grin. “I don’t get into fights anymore, either.”

  “Just verbal ones, it seems like?” he teases. I roll my eyes at him. “Anyway,” he continues, “I’m surprised you’re here. I’d have expected you’d be passed out in bed from all the traveling.”

  My good humor fades out of me, my smile deflating. “I had a hard time staying asleep.”

  His smile fades too. “Oh. The…issue with your Mark?”

  I nod. “I had a dream about my boyfriend, of what we could have had. And I mean, maybe we wouldn’t have had it, Mark or no Mark. We probably would have broken up somewhere down the line. But…” I shrug, my eyes burning as I look at my drink. “It hurt, I guess, seeing the what-if.” I take a much larger swig of my drink than I have been, letting the martini fill my mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Abby.”

  I’m about to tell him not to worry, because honestly, it’s not like it’s his fault. But when I look up and open my mouth, he looks so contrite that my breath gets caught in my chest.

  “Don’t be silly,” I reply. “It’s not like you gave me my Mark.”

  “If…” Ethan pauses. “Do you want to know who your soulmate is, even if you don’t want to be with him?”

  I shake my head. “There’s a reason I haven’t put myself on the apps out there to try and match with him. I know I’m kind of screwing him over; my mom made that abundantly clear. Which is funny, because, you know, like her own relationship with her soulmate is that great.”

  “Yeah, Beth said they were having trouble.”

  “I didn’t realize how bad it’s gotten, or maybe it’s just that I haven’t been around in a long time.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You know,” I say thoughtfully, “you annoyed the crap out of me when I was a teenager, but you really are actually a pretty nice guy.”

  He gives me a cheeky grin. “I’ll take that as high praise from you.”

  A voice calls, “Hey Perry, can I get another shot?”

  He turns to the patron. “You got it.” Then he looks back at me. “Hang out until after close. I’ll take you home.”

  “You don’t need to,” I protest. “I can take care of myself, remember? I survived this long in New York.”

  “Please.”

  I frown; he’s giving me such a look of puppy-eyed pleading that I can’t say no. When I agree, his million-watt smile returns, and he does one last round for everyone while I check my phone.

  I don’t know what I expect in the middle of the night, but there’s still no new messages.

  Chapter 5

  Shortly after 1 in the morning, the bar is closed. Ethan and Mr. Walter (I probably could just call him Walter or Walt, but it’s like when Ethan’s mom told me to just call her Sally, and I was like, “Um, no” because even though I am an adult, she’s known me since I was in diapers, so we’re not entirely on the same level) work on cleaning the bar, dismissing me when I offer to help. Instead, I head out onto the deck. It’s nothing special, just a cherry brown color with some silver Christmas lights spread out along the railing, but it’s a nice place. My friends and I used to sneak out here in order to score our drinks because we knew we’d get caught right away if we went in the bar itself.

  I cross my arms over the railing, staring out at the lake below. It’s dark and almost sinister on a cloudy night like this, when there’s no moon. At least above us, there’s stars. Far off in the distance, I see lightning highlight a column of clouds. I hear no rumble. It’s a silent light show.

  I love thunderstorms. Maybe it comes from living in the Midwest, where we get quite a few. But I especially love something like this, where I can see it billowing in front of me. For a moment, my heart feels calm. I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself or Greg or my mysterious soulmate, but for now, I’m going to enjoy this moment of feeling small and safe.

  Then another light catches my eye, one that’s not one of the deck decor or the thunderstorm north of us. It’s my phone.

  It’s Greg.

  My heart catches in my chest.

  It’s gotta be, what, 2:30-ish over in New York? Why’s he calling me now?

  I pick up my phone, but I can’t seem to swipe right to answer it. Tension sweeps through me. I don’t understand myself. I’ve been dying to get in contact with Greg all day. We’ve barely talked for the past week or so. And, I mean, it has to be good news, right? He wouldn’t call me in the middle of the night just to break things off with me. I love Greg, but he’s not super brave or anything. I’d been the one to ask him out, and I was the one to clarify our relationship. He’d wait till daylight to break up with me, I’m sure of it.

  Unless he also went to a bar tonight, and he’s gotten some liquid courage.

  That’s stupid. I’m being stupid. He wouldn’t do that, not this way.

  I swipe right before the call can go to voicemail and chirp, “Greg, hi!”

  I do a full-body grimace. This is worse than how I talked to him before we started dating. My voice is high and shrill. Glancing at the thunderstorm, I think about those random Weather Channel facts I’ve accumulated. Lightning could probably strike me from this distance, right? God, please let it strike me.

  “Hi, Abby.”

  Good. His voice is only a little slurred. “You’re up really late.”

  “Yeah, sorry.”

  “It’s fine. I am, too.”

  “Oh. Yeah. Listen, you don’t have to text me anymore.”

  Shit.

  It’s happening. I’m going to lose him. I’m going to be alone and he was the only person who accepted my weirdness and my attitude and I’m going to be stuck with a soulmate who resents me even more than I resent him and that’s because I’m not good enough to deserve anyone better and I’ll be like freaking Jen Wheeler and be perpetually miserable and -

  Yeah, screw that. I’m not going to just stand down and let him dump me like this. I mean, yeah, sure, he tried to be a gentleman and break up in person, but the important thing is that right now he’s trying to do it on a phone call, and that’s not okay. I’m going to open my mouth and tell him so.

  Right now.

  Like, now.

  Ugh. I swear, my mouth won’t open. It’s like it’s glued shut, while the rest of me is ripping at the seams.

  I should’ve gotten another few drinks before O’Malley’s closed for the night.

  Greg continues after a minute. “Look. We’re on a break. That goes for you, too. Go live life. Find your soulmate and stuff. You’ve been miserable the past few months.”

  “So have you,” I tell him, finally able to shove the words out. Thank God. He’s not breaking up with me. He’s just telling me to take it easy. Cool. Fine. I can do that. I can totally do that.

  “Yeah, but…” He sighs. “Maybe we should make this permanent.”

  SHIT.

  I need to fight this. He can’t do this. I don’t accept this. I don’t need a soulmate. I just need him. I’m fine. My soulmate would be happier without meeting me anyway. I mean, I’m a mess. I get anxious about stupid things, and I’m bratty and annoying. He’s better off being alone than with me.

  But Greg? He knows all that stuff about me, and he still loves me. Loved me. I don’t know. I’m tired, my head’s full of knots, and I’m pretty sure a bug just bit me and I’m spiraling I know I am but I try to focus on the illumination from the lightning and just not be in this moment.

  I need to fight this. But Greg’s face pops in my head - not the one I’ve always pictured, the silly bea
ming man I’ve known. No, his expression is the one I’ve seen lately, like he’s looking at someone he’s already said goodbye to.

  I’m the one who’s selfishly holding on.

  But shouldn’t he fight for me? Shouldn’t he fight to make this work? Yeah, 99% of soulmates end up together, but my soulmate and I could be that 1%! And you know, who’s to say that those with matching Marks are soulmates, anyway? Those Marks have been around since ancient times, and we’ve all just assumed that yeah, that means you’re soulmates, but I doubt it’s easy to find much data, I mean concrete data -

  “Abby? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah.” The word is stubborn, needing a good push to come out at all. “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “You’ll be happier this way. Both of us will.”

  Greg’s never taken initiative for much in our relationship. But he’s taking initiative in this.

  “Look,” I say, but I don’t know what to follow it up with. Should I cry? Curse him out? Blow it off? There’s a million things to say and nothing I can find the words for. Eventually, I just say, “Thanks. For everything.”

  “You too. I’m sorry we’re doing it this way, Abby.”

  “You were never really good at confrontation, and I’m always too stubborn.” I look away from the light in the storm and down at the dark trees along the lake. “I’ll talk to you another time about my things, okay?”

  Oh. This is really happening. I need to think of how to move my stuff out of there. I need to find another place to live. Will I have to hire a mover? I’ve never moved things before besides some clothes and toiletries when I went to college. What if it’s super expensive? Can I live in a place by myself? Will I have to find roommates? I don’t have many friends over there, mostly just work buddies.

  “Don’t stress yourself out about it, okay? Take your time. It’s not like I’m throwing them out the window.”

  It’s a weak joke, and we both know it.

  “I’ll talk to you later, then.”

  “Okay. Take care, Abby.”

  “You too. Bye.”