Davis

TEN DAYS LATER.

I tilt my head and wince as a sickening crunch comes from the top of my spinal cord.

That can’t be good.

I rub my eyes and that’s worse. My vision is grainy from staring at a computer screen for—I check the clock on my phone—twelve hours plus. My throat is dry, the empty water bottle at my left elbow one I never bothered refilling. My heart…

You know what? Let’s not talk about that.

Since Grace dumped me on my ass and I drove to cry on my grandmother’s shoulder, I’m doing better. I’m handling it. I navigated out of the shit pile that was my life six years ago—this is no different.

No.

It’s better.

Better in the sense that I found out early. That I wasn’t standing at the end of an aisle like a complete schmuck while Grace sneaked out of the church, or out of the courtroom, or off the beach.

I saved myself another six years of pain by taking the brunt of her breakup square on the chin.

That’s my lucid argument of late.

I’m not going to climb into a bottle of rum. I’m not drinking more than one or two beers. I’m not suffering from insomnia.

My coping mechanism this time? Work.

I normally never work past five. Lately I’m hunched over my keyboard until nine or ten. Last night I didn’t stop until after midnight.

The television blares in the background. I let the drone of bad news wash over me as I analyze and overanalyze and reanalyze data.

I have no more control over stocks than I have in the real world, but the act of striking keys and placing calls makes me feel in control. Downtime is the worst. Staying busy is the only way I’ll make it through.

The stock market is volatile. Its tectonic plates shift drastically, whether we’re talking about an act of war or a Kardashian getting her feelings hurt. That kind of unpredictability means it’s safe to play the middle.

I haven’t been safe.

My boss called earlier this afternoon. He’s seen my numbers. My percentage has tanked. Customer satisfaction is down. What happened? he wanted to know. Do you need a break? he asked.

I explained that I hit a bump in the road. I told him I plan on being back to top ten, back down to my lean, mean fighting weight, in no time.

He seemed to believe me.

He invited me to his house, and I told him I’d think about it. Being a country’s width away from Grace is tempting.

Standing isn’t easy, but I do it anyway. My knee wobbles and I straighten it, grab my empty water bottle, and tuck my phone into my pocket.

Over the sink I fill the bottle, my mind wandering.

Other than the voice of a miserable CNN reporter (are they ever happy about anything?), my house is quiet. It’s been quiet for too long.

I remember Grace’s tear-streaked face in the diminishing crack of her front door as I closed it for the last time. I wonder if she’s lonely. If she’s thought of me.

I shut off the sink when the water overflows, a frown pulling my mouth.

It doesn’t matter how she is. It only matters how I am.

Since my visit with my grandmother, I’ve avoided bars. All of them, especially my favorite bar in town. How shortsighted is that? Just because Grace decided to squash my heart like wine grapes, I no longer go to a place I enjoy? I was there first. If anyone should leave McGreevy’s, it should be her. Not me.

Righteous indignation is the worst kind, but that’s what I cling to as I suck a deep breath in through my nostrils.

I have to get over this before I lose my job or take off for California and turn into a tofu-eating hippie like my boss. I don’t thrive on mellow vibes. I live for action.

I pull my phone out and text Vince one word: Beer.

An almost immediate text back reads Where?

Where do you think?

After a lengthy pause, Vince responds: Dude. Seriously?

I’ll be there in fifteen, I text back.

Decision made.

Outside my former favorite bar, I survey the crowd through the windows. McGreevy’s is busy, especially for a weekday. Grace is behind the bar, her hair curled the way I like it.

The way I used to like it.

Standing there, watching her fluid movements, I remember how soft and giving she felt against me….When we danced. When we made love. When she leaned on me and I wrapped her in my arms.

My shoes may as well be cemented to the sidewalk. I set my jaw and will my feet to move forward, but they don’t. Grace glances up and my heart lodges in my throat. She can’t see me through the glass. It’s dark out here and light in there.

I watch her for a few more seconds, indecision immobilizing me. A shadow lengthens on the sidewalk and I turn my head to see Vince, his hands in his black leather jacket’s pockets.

“You don’t have to go in there,” he says.

“Where’s Jackie?” I’m going in and he’s not talking me out of it. It’s just taking me a minute to find my nerve. That’s all.

“She’s at home. She thought it’d be best if she doesn’t interrupt our guy time.”

“Guy time.” I make a face.

“Her words.”

“Let’s do this.” Finally I’m able to take one step forward. Then another.

Vince’s hand lands on my shoulder as I reach for the handle.

He’s concerned. His expression of worry isn’t unlike the one he wore on my wedding day. My nonwedding day.

“I’m thirsty, Vince.” So not the issue. “What is it?”

“Are you sure you want to see her?”

Through the window, I watch as Grace slides past a coworker. She pulls a draft beer and offers a tight smile to a customer.

I’m not sure about anything except that I refuse to let her rule my decisions any longer. Without a word to Vince, I pull open the glass door and step inside.

Grace

For the second time in recent history, the door to McGreevy’s swings open and deposits an unexpected male visitor into my bar. Only it’s not my dad this time. It’s Davis.

Davis Price, in his tall, lean, muscular glory. He’s clad in a charcoal suit, sharp red tie, and pressed white shirt. His hair is in disarray. His eyes are tired.

He’s too beautiful for words.

My heart stops beating as he moves toward me, but his eyes are on the man behind him. Vince Carson. I blink a few times to jar my brain. I didn’t notice Vince at first. At least he has the decency to wave rather than ignore me.

Vince points out one of the few open tables at the far end of the room—one that Lars is wiping down. Davis shakes his head. I can’t hear him but his head shake is clear. He doesn’t want to sit there. He gestures to my bar instead.

We’re packed to the walls tonight, but the couple in front of me just paid. Their glasses are empty. They move to vacate the stools—ironically the woman’s seat is Davis’s usual one—and I panic, my mind racing for a ploy to keep them here. Before I can offer them refills on the house, the man nods and offers a thank-you. The moment he and his lady friend start walking for the door, Davis slides into his seat.

Vince has the good sense to look apologetic as he climbs onto a stool and sits next to his friend.

“Hey, Gracie Lou.” Davis’s greeting is casual, but his words are coated in steel. “The usual for me. Vince?”

After a second of hesitation, Vince orders his usual draft.

I move like I’m running underwater. Every step feels bloated and sluggish. But then I’ve felt like that since I broke up with Davis. I thought I’d be over it by now—though being face to face with him makes me realize how foolish it was to believe I’d bounce back from what we had.

It was real. I know that now.

I’ve been thinking of that old adage lately. The one about how you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. I had Davis.

I had his attention, his presence, and his love. And then I threw it all away.

I didn’t expect him to ever set foot in here again. Of the two of us, I was clearly the winner of McGreevy’s in the breakup. I figured I’d see Vince and Jackie eventually, and I readied myself with a few canned answers in case they asked how I was doing. I had a plan for randomly running into Davis at the park or in passing on the street. I truly never imagined he’d have the balls to show up here.

Every day since we split, I’ve come into work and been confronted by his empty seat. I’ve considered texting him. Imagined smoothing things over between us. I pulled out my phone several times to do just that, but I chickened out. I didn’t know what to say then. I definitely don’t know what to say now.

How stupid of me to believe he’d forgive my betrayal. I lied to myself when I thought it wasn’t as big as leaving him at the altar. It was different, but every bit as big. I took his trust, his love, and threw it in his face.

I wouldn’t forgive me if I were him.

I deliver the beers to Vince and Davis. I can do this. I can do my job. I open my mouth to ask if they need menus. The words turn sour on my tongue.

I’m overcome with the urge to ask Davis if he’s been eating. If he’s been sleeping. If he’s okay and if I can have another chance. Followed by Please, please, give me another chance.

Up until thirty seconds ago, I didn’t believe that was a possibility. Confusion reigned supreme whenever I thought of us and what our future looked like. Then things fell apart and I tried to accept what was. Now, looking at him, I’m no longer confused. My heart overflows with longing.

I know what I want. Is it too late?

“Carson ditched his girl for the night,” Davis tells me, his tone casual. He turns to punch Vince in the arm. “The cats will play!”

Vince emits an uncomfortable laugh, and his presence is literally the only thing keeping me from bursting into tears.

Davis is trying to behave as if he’s unaffected, but I know him. He’s affected. He’s also trying to get past this stage and move on with his life. That’s my fault.

One hundred million percent my fault.

“Honey, are you all right?” Candace asks when I turn toward the cash register facing the wall. I grip the counter’s edge and force myself to breathe in and out. I can’t look at Davis without knowing I made a tragic error.

“I’m fine.” I clear my throat. “Can you, um…take care of the two guys over there?”

Candace looks in the direction of my head tilt. “You mean your boyfriend?”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” Regret, like shards of glass, pierces my chest.

“I’m sorry, doll. Things didn’t end well, then?”

I confirm with a choked “No.”

“I got it, sweets. Don’t worry about a thing.” Candace moves away and my vision blurs, tears filling my eyes.

Shit! I’m about to cry and he’s going to see me. I can’t allow it.

I slide past Candace and out from behind the bar, but not before I hear her tell Lars to “hold down the fort.” I’m aware of her on my heels as I dash for the office. Thankfully, Dax isn’t here tonight. I unlock the door and barely make it over the threshold before a sob pushes its way out of my throat.

“Oh, sweetie.” Candace rubs my back as I sink into the task chair at the desk. I drop my face in my hands and just…bawl.

There’s no other word for it.

“I-I don’t have makeup with me,” I say on a hoarse cry.

“Don’t worry about that.” Candace is so short, she doesn’t have to bend far to meet my eyes. My tears keep coming, and her face goes wavy. “Lars and I can handle things tonight. Go on and sneak out the back.”

Gosh, that sounds heavenly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

I shake my head, but as another teardrop tumbles down my cheek, I open my mouth and tell Candace everything.

My mother’s warning. My vow to never get married. My blurted I love you and the offer of Davis’s house key that scared me half to death.

“Aw, hon. You were caught up, that’s all.” She strokes my hair and offers a kind smile. “He’s a beautiful man. Who could blame ya?”

“I meant it.” I whisper my confession. When I manage to stop the flash flood from my eyes, I lift my chin to face my friend. “I meant it when I said I loved him back. I let him go because I’m terrified of screwing up. I’m…I’m”—I gesture uselessly for a few beats before finishing—“I’m like a piñata, but filled with terror instead of candy.”

“A terror-filled piñata. That’s a new one.” Candace swipes a few cardboardlike paper towels from the dispenser on the wall and offers them to me.

I scrape them over my face, doing a good job of removing my makeup and the first layer of my epidermis.

“What is he doing here? Did he come to get you back?”

Devastation covers me like a thick blanket as I shake my head. “I don’t think so. I think he’s trying to go back to the way things were before we…before we…”

Fell in love and I ruined it all.

I mop at another surge of tears.

“You take all the time you need. I mean it.” Candace peeks out of the office door and down the hallway. “I’m going to go out there. Lars is getting slammed, sweetie. Are you going to be okay for a minute?”

I’m not even in the same stratosphere as “okay.”

“Yep.” I give an exaggerated thumbs-up. Once she’s out the of the office and shuts the door behind her, I sniff and take a few deep breaths. I pull my purse out of the desk drawer and do some rummaging. I find a powder compact and dust on a layer, muting the red in my cheeks and around my eyes. A tube of copper lipstick serves as emergency eye makeup, and—would you look at that?—my new waterproof mascara lived up to its promise. It’s still there.

I don’t feel better about Davis being here, but I refuse to hide in here or sneak out the back. I fucked up, but I’m a big girl. I can own it.

I just need a little more time.

I rifle through the paper piles on the desk that Dax didn’t put away—and busy myself in mindless accounting for about twenty minutes. Before too long, I’m feeling human again.

I can do this. Davis startled me, that’s all. And hell, who knows? Maybe he left already.

In the hall I flip my hair over my shoulder, examining an inventory sheet as I walk. Candace shoots me a compassionate glance as she simultaneously makes three cocktails. I hold up the paper and announce, “Found it!”

Candace and Lars frown in confusion. That’s okay; I was only pretending to find a paper so Davis wouldn’t think I ran away from him.

Which I totally did.

But when I turn to meet his eyes across the bar, one look at him proves he’s not paying attention to me at all. Vince is talking with his hands, and Davis’s attention is all on him.

Until it’s not.

I’ve tossed the paper in the trash can and am moving to help my fellow barkeeps when Davis glances over, catches my eye, and holds me hostage.