Page 8 of His To Erase
AND I didn’t set anything on fire.
Sarah: YET. Proud doesn’t even cover it. This is growth. Boxed carbs and emotionally suppressed tears? You’re basically thriving.
Do I send flowers or a fire extinguisher?
Me: Whichever one comes with wine.
Sarah: Noted. Care package incoming. But you don’t drink? Did we start? Also, don’t think I won’t show up and drag your emotionally unavailable ass home if you go dark again for another week.
The days blend together.Work. Sleep. Repeat.
Every couple of nights, like clockwork, Frank strolls into the bar, slides onto the same damn stool, and watches me with that smirk—the one that says he knows exactly how our conversation will go.
“How about dinner, Ani?"
"No thanks."
"You’re breaking my heart, doll."
"Good. Maybe it’ll make you stop asking."
But he never does. He keeps coming back, keeps watching me, and keeps acting like he knows something I don’t.
Tonight’s no different.
He settles in like he owns the place, fingers drumming an easy rhythm against the counter, patience stitched into his every movement.
"You know," he muses, tilting his head slightly, "some would call this playing hard to get. You don’t even text me back anymore."
I don’t bother looking up as I dry a glass, keeping my voice flat. "And some would call this not interested."
"Hmm." He takes a slow sip of his drink, like he’s actually considering that. "See, that’s where I’m struggling. If you were really not interested, you’d have thrown me out by now."
I let out a slow breath, setting the glass down with a deliberate clink. He’s not wrong, and that pisses me off more than I want to admit.
"Trust me, Frank, it’s something I think about daily."
His grin is dripping with something unreadable. "That right?"
"Absolutely."
"And yet," he leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that the words curl into something smug, "here I am."
I narrow my eyes, watching as he signals for another drink like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I pour it without a word, setting it down with a little more force than necessary, so it sloshes on the counter.
He doesn’t even break eye contact. He just lifts the glass and takes a slow sip.
"You know what I like about you, baby girl?"
"That I don’t like you?" I deadpan, already moving to clean up an empty glass left behind next to him.
He chuckles, shaking his head. "The fact that you’re a terrible liar."
My stomach tightens, but I keep my face neutral. He’s wrong. I’m an excellent liar. It’s why I’m still alive.
I turn away from him, busying myself with stacking the clean glasses, but he’s still there, his presence pressing against me even without him moving an inch.
"You could make this easy," he says after a moment. "One date. One dinner. Then, if you still don’t like me, I’ll leave you alone."
