Page 92 of That Moment
I drink until the bottle’s empty, then drink another. The quiet presses in, heavier than the day my dad died, heavier than any lonely night I’ve had since. Because this time it’s my fault.
I hurt her. And I can’t bring myself to fix it.
So I shut the phone off completely. No more buzzing. No more temptation. Just silence.
I tell myself it’s better this way. Better for her. Better for me.
But when I crawl into bed, the sheets are cold, and the ache in my chest says I’m a fucking liar.
By Saturday night, the walls of my house feel like they’re closing in. Three days of silence from Adrienne have eaten me alive. Every time I walk past the phone on the counter, I feel the temptation gnawing at me. I almost cave more than once. Almost.
Instead, I drive into town.
The Place is the same as it’s always been, dim neon signs buzzing, pool balls clacking, jukebox playing a mix of old country and shitty nineties rock. The smell of fried food and stale beer clings to the walls. I slide onto a stool at the bar and order a pitcher, figuring it’ll last me through the night.
It doesn’t.
Half an hour later, the pitcher’s empty, and the buzz in my head isn’t enough to drown out her face. Adrienne was in that tasting room, smiling at me like she wanted to bridge the gap. Adrienne in the parking lot, asking,What is this between us?Adrienne whispering my name in bed, soft and vulnerable in a way that fucking undid me.
I grip the empty glass so hard I think it might shatter. That’s when I hear it, the high-pitched laughter behind me. I don’t even need to look to know who it is.
Amy.
She was a good time for a while. It was easy, uncomplicated, a few months of distraction when I needed it. We ended on decent terms. She knows what I am, and she never asked for more, and neither did she. She has an ex in prison she’s waiting on.
She sways up with a friend in tow, her hand landing on my shoulder. “Well, well. Scotty Bescher in the flesh.”
I force a grin, polite but nothing more. “Amy.”
Her eyes sparkle, cheeks flushed from whatever she’s already been drinking. She leans down, close enough that I smell tequila on her breath. She puckers up her lip, pretending to cry. “You didn’t call me back last time.”
“Very funny,” I mutter, turning back toward the bar.
She pouts for show, then laughs it off, sliding onto the stool beside me. Her friend disappears toward the bathroom, leaving us in that old familiar orbit. She toys with the rim of my glass, nails painted fire-engine red.
“You always did brood better than anyone else I know. What’s wrong this time, your truck broke down? Or a woman?”
That one hits a little too close, but I bark out a laugh anyway. “Something like that.”
She smirks knowingly, crossing her legs so the hem of her dress hikes up. “Guess that means you could use a distraction.”
Her hand lands on my thigh. It’s casual at first, like an old habit, but then she drags her fingers higher, grazing the seam of my jeans.
Still, I don’t stop her right away. I let her touch linger, let the bar see it, let myself pretend for five seconds that it doesn’t matter.
But it does. It fucking does. Because I don’t want any other woman touching me besides Adrienne. I move to push her hand away, but not before I stand up, catching a familiar set of eyes looking right back at me.
Brooklyn.Shit.
She’s sitting at a high-top with Tyler, a glass of wine in hand. My guess is, it’s their date night. When her eyes land on me and then down on Amy’s hand, inching up my thigh, her eyes narrow. She shakes her head slowly, disappointment etched in every line of her face.
My gut drops.Fuck.
I shift on the stool, muttering under my breath. Amy leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Problem?”
Yeah. A big one.
Brooklyn’s not just Adrienne’s cousin by marriage. She’s her best friend. The one Adrienne leans on, confides in. And now she’s watching me sit here, letting some old fling paw at me like I’m free game.
