~ Emma
I’m not really sure what he expects me to do. My eyes glance from his hand in front of me, to his face, and then back to his hand. Nick says nothing.
“What?” I eventually ask, looking up at him.
He smiles, but it’s different this time, before he reaches for my hand and pulls me from my seat and into his arms.
Have I missed something here? Maybe I’m drunker than I thought? Maybe he is too?
I feel his hands as they slide across my back, one of them pressing against the base of my spine, the other resting on the skin just below my neck. His fingers are warm and surprisingly gentle as they pull me closer until we are practically embracing.
And then he slowly starts to move and I can’t help but think, yeah, I’m definitely drunk.
“What…what are you doing?” I stammer, pulling away from him.
Nick’s fingers tighten, but not in a way that’s threatening. “Dancing,” he says.
“Why?” I immediately blurt out.
He chuckles, drawing me closer again as he leans towards me and whispers, “Why not?”
I’m not sure which explanation to go with first. Because it’s weird to be dancing in an empty bar with someone I barely know and only an hour or so ago was being incredibly rude to? I mean surely that would be a good start?
But as though he knows I’m about to question his motives, Nick pulls me closer so my cheek is resting against his shoulder as he says, “Just go with it, Emma.”
He moves with a casual kind of confidence that makes me wonder if this is something he’s done before. The music he’s put on isn’t exactly slow dancing music, which has me thinking he wasn’t intending to do this. But what is it that changed his mind? And why am I so okay with it?
I close my eyes as I try to find a plausible explanation. But nothing comes. Nothing except the realisation that Nick’s body feels hard and warm as it’s pressed against mine.
His thumb strokes the top vertebrae of my spine, reminding me that his hand is resting against my bare skin. It makes my heart skip a beat as I draw in a quick breath, the move sending a wave of sensations rippling down my spine.
He smells so good.
I feel my heart rate increase, the pounding crash against my sternum that makes me wonder if it really is possible for it to break free. Of course I know it’s not, but right now, years of medical training can’t convince me of that.
I force my eyes to open, my stare fixating on the black ink I can now see on his left forearm. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it before; maybe his sleeves weren’t pulled up like they are now.
I pull back just a fraction, wanting to read the words he has tattooed into his skin. I see the phrase and now she’s free trailing down his inner forearm. The four words are surrounded by a black line that wraps around both them and his arm, as though it’s binding the words to his skin, to him, before disappearing beneath his sleeve.
A part of me wonders how far up it goes.
A bigger part of me wonders what it all means. Who she is?
Nick pulls me close again, as though he senses my curiosity. Just as I’m about to ask him about it, I feel the hand at the base of my neck slide up into my hair, cradling the back of my head. I instinctively look up, our eyes meeting in the half darkened room.
Nick swallows hard as he stares down at me, looking at me in a way I can’t decipher. I watch as he blinks once before leaning in, almost as though he’s going to…
…the loud ring of my phone shatters the moment, both of us pulling away from each other as though we’ve suddenly woken up and aren’t sure how we came to find ourselves in this position.
We stare at each other as my phone continues to ring. Eventually it stops and just as I feel the gentle press of his fingers pulling me back in, it starts to ring again.
“Someone’s trying to get hold of you,” he says, his words hoarse.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
The phone stops again, sending us back into the unknown before it immediately starts ringing once more.
“I should get it,” I say, pulling myself from his arms. It might be the hospital, but even if it is, I’m in no state to answer, much less go in. I’m off for the next two days, but it’s never stopped them from calling me before. I guess I don’t ever complain about it either.
Nick nods and I walk towards the bar, reaching for my phone. I have just enough time to see Sarah’s name flashing on the screen before the call stops again.
“Sarah,” I mumble. “My friend from tonight.”
Nick steps towards me. “You should call her back.”
I shake my head, knowing this is one conversation I definitely don’t want to have right now.
“Call her back, Emma,” he murmurs. “It’s never going to get any easier.”
My eyes find his, the darkness of his stare boring into me. “I don’t know if I can,” I admit.
“You can,” he says confidently. “Go back to my office,” he says, gesturing towards the back. “It’ll be more private.”
I nod once, gripping the phone in my hand as I turn and walk away. I can feel him watching me as I walk across the room to the corridor that leads down to the bathrooms and his office. As I open door, I hit the button on my phone and lift it to my ear.
“Hey, Sarah,” I force out when she answers.
“Oh, so you are alive then?” she says, sarcastically. She sounds drunk and that alone is enough to convince me that I do not want to do this right now.
“I am,” I stupidly say. “Have you had a good night?” It’s a ridiculous thing to ask and the laugh I get in response only confirms that.
“Well, it could’ve been better,” she says as the sound of glasses clinking fills the background. “But then again, maybe it was better this way.”
Her words sting even though I know I deserve them. “Sarah, I’m sorry, okay. I’m sorry I was late getting to the bar. Sorry I missed the limo and wasn’t able to join you.”
“Yeah, but that’s the thing, Em,” she says, hurt in her voice. “You could’ve come and joined us, couldn’t you? You just chose not to.”
I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “That’s not true,” I say, even if it sort of is. I knew exactly where they were going, where I could find them. I could’ve gotten a taxi and gone to them.
But I didn’t and I know that’s only made me missing the start of the night that much worse. I don’t even know why I didn’t go. I’m not sure what it is that made me to stay in a bar where I knew no one, talking to a guy who probably has girls throwing themselves at him night after night.
Does Nick think that’s what I was trying to do by staying?
“Just as I thought,” she says, as I realise I haven’t answered her question.
I take a deep breath, knowing that nothing I say is going to fix this. “I’m really sorry, Sarah,” I start. “I was late, yes. Work obviously. And by the time I got to the bar you guys had left. I know it’s my fault I missed you and I know I could’ve come and joined you guys, but…it’s just…I’d had a shit day at work and I just didn’t feel up to it. Didn’t want to ruin your night…again.”
Sarah scoffs at my excuses, just as someone calls out her name in the background. “Yeah, I guess celebrating with your best friend after she’s gotten engaged makes no sense now, does it?” I open my mouth to respond that it isn’t like that but she doesn’t give me a chance. “I know work always comes first for you, Emma. That it’s more important than any of us; always has been.”
“Sarah…”
“No. You don’t get to do this, Emma. Not tonight,” she says, venom in her voice now. “You hurt me by not showing up. I could’ve lived with you being late, but not showing up at all. Who does that, huh? Who?”
“I don’t know,” I say, quietly.
“Someone who’s too selfish to think about anyone but themselves,” she spits out. “Someone who cares more about work and her career than her best friend, the best friend she’s known since high school.”
She stops and I’m not sure what to say because everything she’s thrown at me is the truth. Well, sort of. It’s not that I don’t think about anyone else. It’s more like I never stop thinking about work. It’s something that’s too important to me and something I’ve worked too hard for to just throw away because I want to get to a party on time. I don’t know why she can’t understand that. She was always so supportive throughout uni when I was studying. Why has that suddenly changed now?
“You know what,” Sarah says, her voice now cold. “I’m not sure I want you as my bridesmaid anymore.”
“What?” I breathe out, shocked. “Why would you say that?”
“Because,” she says, sending a tiny fissure of fear down my spine at where this is going. “Knowing my luck, you’d be on call on the day of the wedding and you’d have to go and everything would be ruined. And I just don’t want to take that risk, Emma.”
My heart sinks as I find myself collapsing onto a couch, soft leather giving way beneath me. “Why are you saying this?” I ask, tears threatening to fall. “You’re my best friend, Sarah.”
She gives a half laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Yeah, I used to think I was. Now, I’m not so sure.”
“Sarah,” I plead. “Please, don’t do this.”
Cheers ring out on the other end of the phone just as she says, “I’ve gotta go. I hope you had a good night.”
Then the phone goes dead and the sudden weight of it in my hand feels like it’s going to pull me right through the floor.
“You okay?”
I look up and see Nick standing in the doorway. He has a concerned look on his face and I wonder how much of our conversation he’s heard. I can only shrug in response because obviously I’m not okay.
“Didn’t go so well then?” he asks, stepping into the room.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I wish I hadn’t called her.
He gives me a small smile and I watch as he walks towards the desk that sits at one end of the room. It’s neat, only a stack of papers on one side and a framed photo on the other side. It’s too far away to see clearly, but from here, it looks like a photo of Nick and a girl with long brown hair. They are both smiling, although neither of them is looking directly into the camera. He opens a drawer in the desk just as he catches me looking at the picture.
“My sister,” he says, picking it up. He walks towards me the photo in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other. He hands me the photo before grabbing two glasses from a shelf. I glance at the picture while he pours whisky into both glasses.
I want to ask him about why she’s not here anymore. Where she went and why she left him to run this place on his own. They look so close in the photo that I can’t imagine something coming between them.
He takes a seat on the coffee table in front of me as he hands me a drink. Despite my earlier protestations about having had enough, I take it, throwing it back without a word. The liquid burns on the way down and I can’t help but cough.
Nick chuckles. “Easy,” he says, taking my glass as he pours me another. “This is the good stuff, it’s worth actually tasting.”
He hands me the glass again and this time I force myself to take a sip. I’m still looking at the photo in my hand, trying to work out which of them is older.
“She’s beautiful,” I say, glancing up.
I see him staring at the picture in my hand, his jaw tense. “She was,” he whispers, a trace of sadness in his voice.
I look up. “Was?”
Nick takes a large gulp of his whisky, swallowing hard before he finally looks at me. “She died,” he says. “About a year ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I immediately say.
Nick nods, not saying anything and despite the fog of alcohol it dawns on me why he was so pissed off earlier, when I mentioned about not really opening the bar. It’s not that he doesn’t want to; it’s more that he can’t. She must have been a part of this dream for him. The kitchen was her thing, he told me that, and then when she died, that part of the dream also died. The realisation makes me feel incredibly sad and really, really awful for the things I said to him earlier.
“Nick,” I murmur.
“Don’t,” he says, refilling our glasses. “Please, just don’t.”
I open my mouth to speak, but stop when I see the grief on his face.
Because this is different to work and right now, I have no idea how I’m supposed to act, or what I’m supposed to do, or any of things I should say to him. This just feels far too real compared to any other time I’ve ever had to do this.
Instead I settle with, “Do you want to talk about it?” Knowing how often people do, even when they pretend they don’t.
Grief isn’t something to be locked away and never discussed. Losing someone close to you is awful, but the harder part is everyone expecting you to move on without them. To let go and somehow pretend as though they never existed in your life in the first place. Telling someone that their loved one hasn’t survived is one of the toughest parts of my job, but it’s something I know I have to do. It’s why I needed to stay late tonight, why I missed the party.
Trying to explain that to Sarah though, she just wouldn’t get it. No one does, not until you’ve lived it. Many times over.
“Tell me what happened,” he says, ignoring my question as he nods at the phone sitting beside me on the couch.
I exhale hard, knowing that this is the question I should be asking him. I open my mouth to speak, to ask him how he is, but it’s like he knows.
“You called her back?” he asks, forcing the conversation back to me.
I know it’s a coping mechanism. A way for him to avoid telling me too much about his sister and what happened to her. I wonder if he’s ever really dealt with her death. If he’s ever spoken of the grief he so clearly still feels.
“Em?” he says gently, leaning forward a little as he takes the photo from my hand and puts it on the table beside him.
It’s the first time he’s called me that and it’s said in such a strangely intimate way that it sends a shiver down my spine. It’s only now that I realise how close we are too. Me on the couch, him sitting directly opposite me on the table. His legs are practically on either side of mine, his hands holding the glass between his knees.
We’ve been closer, back out in the bar, but this somehow feels like so much more. I can’t even bring myself to look at him, staring at the floor between us as I try to work out what to say. But my eyes gravitate to his arm and even though the lighting is low, I can still make out the words.
…and now she’s free…
I exhale; wondering if being free is at all possible. “She was pissed, obviously,” I say, my eyes on the words.
“Did you tell her what happened?” he asks, taking another sip of his drink. I watch, mesmerised as his arm moves, the flexing of muscle, the tightness of his fingers around the glass. Somewhere, deep inside, an ache starts to develop that I don’t know how to explain.
“I told her I was late because of work,” I say, taking another sip of my drink. He’s right; it is nicer when I drink it this way.
“Did you tell her what happened today?” he asks.
I shrug and shake my head at the same time. “No, she wasn’t really up for listening.”
Nick finishes his whisky, putting the empty glass beside him before he leans closer, his fingers threaded together between his legs. “You sure?” he asks. “Or is that just what you think.”
I shake my head, my eyes still on the ink on his arm. “I don’t know,” I say flatly.
“I think you should try and explain it to her,” he whispers just as my fingers reach out and brush against the words…and now she’s free…
What do these words mean? I’m assuming the she refers to his sister, but what does he mean by her being free. Free of what? Was she sick and that’s why she died?
Nick makes a strange sound at my touch and when I glance up at him, I see he’s watching me. His eyes are focused and intense, and up close, I can now see they are dark blue. He swallows hard, opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.
“And now she’s free,” I whisper, my fingers tracing the words.
“Emma,” he murmurs, his voice like gravel; deep and husky and laced with pain.
“Do you want…” I whisper, “…do you want to…” my words trail off as I stare into his eyes, which are now huge pools of blackness.
Nick shakes his head and then it’s impossible to tell which of us moves first. I’m sure it’s him but at the same time I feel myself lean closer, my lips as they touch his, the sweet taste of whisky on both of our mouths.
I don’t know why I’m doing this, what in the hell would possess me to lean forward and kiss this man who is practically a stranger. The only thing I can think is that after everything that’s happened today and tonight, I just need it. Need the distraction, the closeness, the chance just to feel something. Anything that doesn’t involve death, or work, or hurting my best friend because she doesn’t understand what I go through and I’m too stupid and stubborn to try and explain it.
“Emma,” he murmurs again, his mouth firm against mine.
I’m not sure if he’s asking me why, if he’s begging me to stop, or if he’s asking me permission. I don’t give him a chance to wonder as I fall back onto the couch, my fingers grabbing his t-shirt and pulling him closer so that he practically lies on top of me.
I don’t want to question anything right now.
I just want this.