Twenty minutes later, I sped-walked to Catfish, where I hoped Michele was working. The frigid night was bearing down on me with claws out, and snowflakes were beginning to fall, the beginnings of the storm all the weathermen had predicted.

I had it all in my head, exactly what I was going to say to her. That I understood why she hadn’t called me, and that I also thought it was for the best. I wouldn’t allow her pretty eyes and perfect lips to distract me.

Walking through the doors of the bar, I was greeted with a warm rush of air. I nodded to the bouncer, remembering the way he’d been staring at Michele the first time I walked in here. I frowned and looked toward the bar, seeing Michele there, pouring drinks and smiling at someone.

And then, as if I were a magnet, her eyes flicked toward me. Her smile dropped. She obviously hadn’t been expecting to see me.

Steeling myself, I made my way up to her, taking a seat at one of the stools. It was steady here tonight, with a few dozen people drinking, playing pool and talking. Another bartender I hadn’t seen before was going back and forth, serving drinks and clearing glasses.

“Hey,” I said as I sat down, removing my gloves and plopping them on the bar top. I gave her a smile that was completely forced.

Seeing her up close after everything that happened last week was making me forget why I came here. Her hair, usually down, was piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and I couldn’t help but watch her body, knowing exactly what all those curves looked like under her clothes.

“Iain,” she said, an emotion in her tone that I couldn’t place. She hovered some feet away from the edge of the bar, clutching an empty glass. She didn’t ask me if I wanted a drink.

“That storm is starting out there,” I said lamely. Everything I came to say seemed to have fled from my mind. “Could I get that IPA again?”

“Oh, we actually ran out of that yesterday.”

“Uh, okay then. Just surprise me.”

It occurred to me that I had said almost that exact same thing the first time I came here - Surprise me. Michele didn’t say anything but moved toward the taps, pouring me something dark and setting it in front of me.

“Look, I don’t want to be rude, but I’m pretty busy here tonight. I don’t have much time to talk.”

“That’s okay,” I replied immediately. I was willing to wait.

Michele gave me a funny sort of look then walked away toward some waiting customers. I sipped my drink, brooding, wondering if I was a complete asshole to show up here tonight. Probably, but I needed to say what I came here to say. Otherwise, I might have just lose my nerve.

I finished one drink, then a second. Finally, after about an hour, the bar started to settle down, and several people left.

“You want another?” Michele asked as I downed the last sip. Her eyes were searching mine, her lips parted. In that moment, I was certain I’d never seen anyone more beautiful than her.

“No thanks. I’m good.”

Silence passed between us, the sounds of the bar loud and deafening, at least to me. I listened to the sounds of people talking, laughing, of glasses being slapped onto tables and music playing from faded speakers. Every time the door opened and closed, a rush of cold, biting air moved toward us, engulfing me.

I wanted to say it - to break it off, to tell her that I dropped the case and she had nothing else to worry about when it came to me. But I found myself focusing instead on the worst possible things, like her delicate hands, the way she leaned against the bar, the way she looked at me.

And that was when I knew that I couldn’t do it.

“Looks like the snow is coming down pretty hard out there,” I heard, and I saw a guy talking into his phone, his face red from booze. “Gonna try to wait it out.”

I looked back toward Michele, but she had already moved on to the other end of the bar.

 

xxx

 

An hour later, and there were only a few stragglers. The second bartender had gone home about a half hour ago. The snow had fallen incredibly fast and according to the news on one of the bar TVs, it had no plans of stopping. Many people had ditched the bar early in hopes of catching a taxi before the roads became too dangerous, and the sidewalks were covered in ice. The newscasters warned everyone to stay indoors.

I’d caved in and was nursing one last beer, more to pass the time than to feel its effects. I wondered if I was incredibly stupid to still be here when it was obvious that Michele was avoiding me. She was doing everything in her power to look extremely busy, from polishing the already polished bar to cleaning glasses that I was pretty sure were already clean to staring blankly at the TV even though it was reeling the same things over and over.

It was going on midnight, and her last customer paid and left, huddling into himself as he left the bar. The snow was halfway to his knees.

“Closing time,” Michele said after he left. The bouncer came up to us, his eyes narrowed suspiciously at me before gesturing at her.

“Can I get a shot for the road, Lila? It’s a long trek home. Especially with all that shit out there.”

“Sure, Jacob.”

She pulled a bottle of what looked like well whiskey from the shelf and poured him an overlarge shot into a rocks glass. He downed it and groaned.

“You okay if I head out? Or, I mean, I can stay,” he said, pointedly. I resisted the urge to sock him square in his face.

“Um, it’s cool, Jacob. We’re friends. Just turn the light off on your way out.”

We were both silent as Jacob left, shutting off the Open sign on his way. He stomped in the snow, cursing, before slamming the door shut.

And just like that, we were alone.

“What a night,” she whispered, then she removed her apron and pulled her hair down. I watched the strands cascade down her neck, wondering how they’d feel on my fingers. Then she turned and looked at me. “You’re persistent. Anyone ever tell you that?”

“Ha.” I finished my glass, pushing it toward her side of the bar. “Oddly enough, nobody ever has.”

“Something tells me that you’ve come to convince me back into your bed.”

“I -”

“It’s not going to work.” She grabbed my glass, taking it over to the sink and washing it quickly. “Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call you... after. But it’s just not a good time.”

I stared at her, unmoving.

“I’m grateful,” she said, drying the glass off and setting it down with some other freshly washed glasses. “I’m grateful for everything you did for me, and I had a… really good time with you. And… I don’t know. In another life, maybe it would have… been something.”

She folded her arms across her chest, not in defiance, but like a shield. I sat back, my hands resting in my lap.

“Why?” I asked.

“Why what?”

“Why can’t it be something now?”

Shit, why had I asked that? She was handing me everything I wanted. Everything I came here to say - she’d said it for me. So why had I gone and twisted it back around?

Michele looked startled, but recovered quickly. She picked up a rag and started wiping down the already clean bar, looking away from me as she spoke, her cheeks reddening.

“Because. I’m still married, technically. For one. And for two, I’m...broken. Surely you see that?”

My fists clenched. “Michele, if you think you’re fooling me into thinking for one second that you view yourself as a married woman after everything that asshole has done to you, you’re damn wrong.”

“Maybe I don’t, but everyone else would.”

“Who gives a shit what everyone else thinks?”

“I - I don’t. I don’t give a shit, but - dammit, Iain.” She threw her rag down and it slapped wetly against the bar. Then she looked at me, hurt in her eyes. “You’re missing the point!”

“I’m missing the point? I’m not the one who’s running away from something real.” I ignored the stab of guilt whispering at me that I was not being completely honest. I trudged on, standing up and walking along the bar until I was standing in front of her, the bar still separating us. I rested my hands against it, leaning in. “Tell me the truth, Michele. Why haven’t you called me?”

“Because I can’t do this.”

“Do what?” I asked, my hands pressing against the flat surface. Michele refused to look at me. “Do what?” I asked again.

“Be with you. Be with anybody,” she replied finally, her voice so quiet I almost didn’t catch it.

“Why not?” I pressed. I bid her to look at me, but she only looked down.

I considered, briefly, whether I should just walk away. It would have been so easy - to wash my hands of it and disappear into the blizzard. I’d be cold, but at least I’d be leaving for good, which was exactly why I came here in the first place. But looking at her now, I couldn’t imagine leaving. I couldn’t imagine anything more than this moment.

“Michele, look at me.”

I didn’t expect her to do it, but she did. Her eyes were red and wet, and my heart lurched in my chest at the sight of them.

“I came here tonight to tell you that I called Brandon and told him I was dropping the case,” I started. She tensed that, but I continued. “I also came here, originally, to tell you that I didn’t want to see you again.”

Something sparked in her eyes, her brow knitting at my words. “What?”

“Yeah. But then I saw you again and it all went to hell.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Then she opened it again. “You’re better off without me.”

“Michele….” I sighed and turned away from her. I stared out into the bar, darkened and empty. Maybe I’d been reading her all wrong. Maybe it was for the best that we part ways. It certainly would be the easier path. “Of course. That’s your choice.”

I walked back around to my coat, grabbing it off the stool and pulling it on. I zipped it up hurriedly and took my gloves. I didn’t look at her.

“I told Brandon… I told him that I didn’t find you and I figured you went to Florida, hoping to throw him off.” I fiddled with my gloves as I spoke. “And, Michele... I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

I turned and headed toward the door, telling myself that it was better this way. She didn’t want me in her life, and she wasn’t my responsibility, anyway. I’d done my part to keep Brandon away from her - everything that came next was on her.

“Iain, wait.”

The sound of her voice stopped me in my tracks. I turned my head, dreading what she was about to say. She came around the bar, heading toward me, her face unreadable. My heart sped up.

She stood before me, her body tense and poised. I fought the urge to touch her, to smooth her furrowed forehead and kiss her lips. She brushed at the front of her shirt nervously, her eyes on me warily.

“Iain, I’m scared.”

“Of Brandon?”

“Yes. And of you.”

I shifted uncomfortably in place, not understanding. Did she think I’d turn around and tell Brandon where she was?

“The only time I ever loved a man, he hurt me.” She stepped closer to me, a hesitant move. My arms itched to reach and pull her toward me, but I knew better. “I spent the last five years of my life just… unfocused. Afraid, mostly.” She shook her head. “Of his next move, of the next thing he’d take away from me. I was… rotting, in that house.”

I struggled to find something to say but came up so short. I knew exactly how she felt but on a different level: I remembered so clearly being a child, knowing innately that I had something to fear in my mother but not understanding why.

“When I left, and up until now, I was so sure that I was better off alone. That I had control as long as I stayed away from him, from anybody.” She was right in front of me now; she smelled like alcohol, of one too many spilled drinks, of dish soap and of her flowery shampoo. “But then you showed up.”

I remembered that day like it was yesterday. The look on her face, the map in her hands. The wind. I hadn’t known what to do - she’d seemed so lost.

I’d wanted to show her the way.

I still did.

“You’ve told me that I always have a choice,” she said. “What if… I don’t choose fear this time?”

“I’d be there for you,” I said. “Michele, I want to be there for you.”

“Why?”

She wasn’t challenging me, but asking with an uncertainty that nearly broke my heart. I stepped forward, finally giving in to my own desires and closing the distance, pulling her near. I needed so badly to touch her again, to be there for her. I hadn’t craved intimacy like this in so long. Maybe I was doing the wrong thing for the both of us. But maybe I wasn’t.

“Don’t ever question your worth,” I said to her. “Not around me. Not around anybody. You are more than what Brandon did to you.”

Her hold tightened around me, her face buried into my chest. She sobbed, a muffled sound, and I felt the power of it against me. I hated to hear her cry, but hoped that what I said was resounding in her.

“How d’you know?” she asked, her voice muffled and thick. “What if he never lets me go?”

I pulled her back, looking at her face. Her eyes were red and puffy, her eyelashes glistening with tears. Newfound anger, vicious and hot, rushed through me as I realized that Brandon did this to her. Not that I hadn’t realized that already, but for the first time, I focused on that point with clarity and precision. Brandon, who saved my life, abused a woman. This woman. His wife.

“He will,” I told her. “I’ll make sure of it, Michele.”

Rage for Brandon, hundreds of miles away, living cozy while Michele suffered and anguished, bled through me. He deserved nothing more than to suffer too. I wouldn’t seek him out, but if he ever showed up here, I couldn’t be sure how I’d react.

If my dry mouth and heaving chest had anything to say about it: Not well.

The touch of her hand on my arm brought me back. I watched her, looking at me, with something in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Her hand rose higher, skimming along my neck and then landing on my cheek.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “For everything.”

My eyes flicked to her lips; I wanted to lean in and claim them. To erase every touch before mine, to replace them with something else, something she could remember fondly instead of with regret and fear.

Instead, I backed up, remembering that we were in the middle of a dim bar during one of the worst snowstorms in years. As if she’d realized the same thing, she released her grip on me and shrugged.

“Guess we should get ready to head out,” she said. “Maybe we could head to your place. It’s closer.”

I gave her a dumbfounded look. “You want to come to my apartment tonight?”

A smile broke out onto her face, mischievous and light. “Don’t go getting any ideas, mister. Just to… talk, and to get out of the snow.”

I smiled.

“In that case, by all means.”