Page 10 of Hopeless
I smirk but say nothing.
“A childhood filled with neglect means I learned to survive by not relying on anyone,” she says. “Boom. Diagnosed. Saved myself hundreds of dollars. You go.”
I curve a brow as I consider what to say next. “PTSD.”
“Yeah.” Her nose wrinkles as the song nears its end. “So generic. I can see why you wouldn’t want to talk to a professional about that.”
“Winter, are you making fun of me? I can’t fucking tell.”
She pats me on the shoulder. “You’re big and handsome, Beau. Some people might think that means you’re stupid. I think you let people think you are because it’s easier that way.”
“Wow. Thank you. I’m endlessly flattered, Dr. Hamilton.”
“But I know better. You know better. We both know therapy is good but we both don’t go. So we’re just doing the best we can.”
“What does that mean?” My brow furrows, and she steps away at the end of the song.
“Fuck if I know. I’ve had a lot of champagne to medicate myself through this family event. Have you tried it? It’s delicious. At any rate, no hard feelings. Water under the bridge, as they say. But if you need anything, you’ve got my number.”
We shake hands. Then she turns and walks over to Theo, who is eyeing her up her like she might be dessert. That’s hard to watch too. So I walk toward someone who isn’t.
I’m drawn to Bailey through the crowd like a magnet. Or maybe I’ve just become the new miserable regular who sits on a stool waiting for her to finish work. Like a sad puppy dog.
But she talks to me like no one else does. About inane things. And sometimes we’re just quiet together.
And that quiet is comfortable.
When I lean against the bar, she barely acknowledges my presence. She doesn’t need to. She knows I’m here.
“No chamomile tea. But you look like you could use a pick-me-up.” She slides a glass of Coca-Cola in front of me, not realizing thatshe’sthe pick-me-up.
“Thanks,” I reply, hunkering down against the bar, preparing myself to emulate what we do at The Railspur. I told my family I’d be at the wedding, and I am. But the truth is, it’s overwhelming. It’s hot, and loud, and busy in this barn turned event space, and I don’t like it.
“How ya doin’, soldier?” Bailey asks, propping a hip against the ice well to face me. She crosses her arms and inspects me a little too closely, as if she can sense that something is isn’t right.
I stare back at her, absently wondering how many freckles dot her nose. Wondering if they only crop up in the summer or if they linger through the winter. I’ve never looked at her close enough to notice. There’s one just above her lip that I’m pretty sure is always there.
I tear my gaze away and glance at the dance floor, seeing all my family members together. It’s nice to see them happy. I put them all through so much. And yet, I take a deep swig of soda, peek back at Bailey, and say, “I’m struggling.”
She nods. “Trust your struggle, Beau.”
“What does that mean?”
“If we’re struggling, we’re still in motion, yeah? Heading somewhere better. That’s what I keep telling myself anyway.”
My chest tightens. I don’t want Bailey to struggle.
I’m where I am by choice. She’s where she is by birth. It seems profoundly unfair.
But I lift my glass to her all the same. “I’ll cheers to that. To struggling together.”
She laughs lightly and lifts her drink from behind the bar, clinking her glass against mine. “Less lonely that way, for sure.”
It’s a simple exchange. Probably nothing noteworthy to the average person beyond two fucked-up people commiserating.
And yet, knowing I have something in common with Bailey makes me feel instantly lighter.
I wish it was her I’d been out there dancing with.
