Page 55 of Rewriting the Story

As I hear the door shut, my phone pings with a notification—Grant sent me fifteen dollars. I’m about to text him and ask why, but a text comes through.

Grant: Buy yourself a celebratory drink on me.

Henry: With fifteen dollars, I could buy a few.

Henry: And what am I celebrating?

Grant: Well, you’re writing a whole ass book, aren't you?

Henry: I guess I am. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.

Grant: I’ve been your silent cheerleader from afar, but now that you’re back, consider me a loud and proud supporter.

Henry liked a message.

Afterashoweranda quick call with my family, I’ve officially made it out of the room and onto the elevator. The hotel we’re staying at has a really nice bar we’ve passed a few times, and even though I’m not a huge fan of alcohol, maybe I need to loosen up a bit.

Hell, I’ll try anything if it will make writing my book a tiny bit easier.

The bar overlooks the ocean, and as soon as I step out and feel the warm breeze on my face, my bones start to settle. I’ve always loved Virginia. Growing up here, I knew I never wanted to leave. I feel content here, settled, even, and not once have I wanted to run from this place and never look back.

Well, that’s not technically true. There was one point when I thought about getting on a plane and leaving this all behind, but in the end, I’m grateful I didn't—especially since the reason I didn't go was because I wasn't actually wanted by the other person.

By some stroke of something, that person happens to be sitting at the other end of the bar.

I take my seat and flag down the bartender. “I’ll have a beer please.”

I see her head turn to look at me, and I also see about eight shades of panic cross her face before she downs her drink in one go and starts gathering her things.

Just as the bartender sets my drink in front of me, Amelia gets up, but she has to come this way if she wants to leave.

I’m tired of this. I’m tired of her running from me.

“Sit down and have a drink with me, Amelia,” I say as she passes me, freezing in her spot when I speak. “Get her another of whatever she was having.”

“Henry, we don’t have to—”

“We’re just two people having a drink. Or can you not handle being in the same vicinity as me for more than a few hours?”

“I don’t want to make things uncomfortable.”

There she goes with her assumptions again. “Who says you make me feel that way?”

“Shirley Temple, please,” she says to my surprise. She sits next to me, the bartender placing the drink in front of her. “Thank you.”

I can practically feel the anxiety rolling off her, or maybe that’s just the leftover emotions from me thinking about my manuscript earlier.

The two of us sit quietly. I take small sips of my drink, and she doesn't touch hers. I’m not sure how to break this silence. I don’t know what to ask her, but I was the one who invited her to sit down for some reason.

“I should go,” she says, fidgeting where she sits.

“For fuck’s sake, Amelia, can we just talk?” I say as I grab her hand, trying to calm her down.

“T-Talk? You mean about—”

“I think we both owe it to ourselves to clear the air before the wedding.”

She looks down at our conjoined hands, and I shake out of her grip. “I wanted to keep our shit away from the wedding. I was going to find you after it so we could talk.”

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