Dating a bar owner’s going to be hell on my nerves, I think with a smirk as I stir pasta on the stove, too keyed up to eat but too restless not to cook.
I tell myself to relax. To trust him. To be cool.
But the second the clock hits midnight, I’m in the shower—steam curling around me as I take my time, shaving every inch of my body like it’s ritual. Like it means something. Like it prepares me.
When I step out, I towel off, my skin tingling from the hot water and the nerves crawling just beneath it. I style my hair into sultry, glossy waves, the kind that look soft but calculated. My makeup is pure sin. Smoky eyes, red lips, lashes thick enough to cause trouble.
And then, per Will’s instructions, I slip into nothing but a robe. Short. Black. Barely tied. Something I don’t care if it gets ruined.
At one, a noise catches my attention. Raised voices and a few loud thuds coming from the alley near the bar. I move to the window, peeking through the blinds. The Sheriff’s out there, speaking to Will. His posture is tense, jaw tight, one hand gesturing sharply. Will nods once, then runs a hand through his hair, clearly agitated.
I step back from the window, unsettled but trying not to spiral. Maybe it’s just a bar fight. Maybe someone got rowdy. That’s normal, right?
Two comes and goes. And no knock. No message.
Nothing.
By three, I’m pacing. My phone is still dark, and my robe feels less like lingerie and more like humiliation. I move to the window again, peeking out.
That’s when I see them. Will. And Missy. Inside his apartment. He’s holding her. Arms around her like she belongs there. Her head tilted up toward him. His lips are moving, like he's calming her down. Then, he crosses the room. And reaches for the curtains.
But not before his eyes meet mine. Just for a second.
Long enough to see me.
Long enough to know.
My heart cracks right in the center of my chest as his curtain slides shut, severing the moment, the connection, everything.
I stand there, frozen in the dark, wrapped in a robe meant for him, heart thudding in the hollow silence.
It wasn’t just the curtains he closed. It was the door. On me.
Slowly, I go back to my room, the silence pressing in around me like a second skin. I strip off the robe with shaking hands, folding it like it matters. Like pretending this night still had purpose will soften the sting.
I slip on my old nightshirt, the one with the worn collar and faded print, and scrub the makeup off my face. Each swipe of the cloth feels like erasing a different version of myself. The hopeful one, the daring one, the one who thought maybe this time Will would choose her.
By the time I run a brush through my hair, the tears are already falling. Not loud sobs. Nothing cinematic. Just silent,broken tears that won’t stop coming. Like grief without a name. Like mourning something that was never mine to begin with.
They soak into my pillow when I crawl into bed.
They dry in tight salt lines on my cheeks as I finally drift off, sleep offering no peace.
When I wake up, the sun is already slanting through the curtains, and my throat feels raw. My eyes are swollen. My chest still tight.
I reach for my phone without thinking.
No messages from Will.
No apology. No explanation.
Just a single message from someone else.
Trey
Hey! Want to grab dinner tonight at the bar?
I stare at it for a long time, my thumb hovering.
