“I don’t know why. I’m sorry.”
While she cried, I pulled out my cellphone and called her an Uber, tucking the keys safely back into her purse so she’d have them tomorrow. She picked herself up and leaned against the car, frantically wiping mascara from her cheeks. She looked terrible, but I didn’t look much better.
“Did you ever love me?” she asked. “At all?”
I looked at her and reached over, resting my hand on her arm. “I loved you so much, Julia, but I don’t think the last few years have been the greatest for us.”
She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with cool air, and then looked away from me, nodding.
“I know,” she said quietly. “I—I know. And—I’m sorry. For hurting you.”
Nothing else needed to be said, and I put her in the car a few minutes later and watched her leave before heading back into the bar for another drink, so I could mope in my own little world of self-pity and regret. I wanted so badly to call Paisley, but I’d been trying to give her space while the breakups for us were still relatively new. She wanted to do this right, so that’s precisely what we would do.
Around two -thirty in the morning, I’d figured it would be an excellent idea to head home and sleep off the inevitable hangover. Most of the night owls had cleared out, leaving me and one or two stragglers sitting pathetically up at the bar, noses in our drinks, head in our hands. I closed my eyes, thinking of Paisley, wishing she was there with me now, the softness of her hand holding mine, squeezing with desperation. I considered calling her again, just to hear her voice, but the image of Julia’s face popped into my mind, and guilt tugged at the strings of my heart. I couldn’t bring myself to force Paisley’s company, not when another broken woman was home, shattered and alone. If things were meant to be, they would play out that way.
I threw another wad of bills down on the counter for the bartender and gathered up my coat, not as drunk as I wanted to be but buzzed enough that I cared just a little less. As I turned to leave, the front door swung open, the bell tingling obnoxiously in the still air around me. No one bothered to turn around, and it took me a moment to digest what I saw.
Paisley stood at the door, perched unsteadily on the line between inside and out. A cool breeze wafted in from behind her, ruffling her hair—hair streaked with blood, dirt, and grime. She was hunched over, one arm wrapped around her midsection, holding tight as though afraid to let go. Her lip was busted and swollen, arms streaked with dried blood and dirt.
“Paisley.”
It was a familiar scene I’d witnessed too many times before on domestic abuse calls. This time, it wasn’t a strange woman standing in front of me; it was Paisley. For a moment, I couldn’t move forward, couldn’t react. It wasn’t until she took one step and nearly doubled over and fell that reality jerked me back. I caught her before she stumbled, securing one arm behind her, and gripped her hand with the other.
“Christ,” I said, holding her up. “Can someone call an ambulance?”
Paisley shook her head, lip trembling. “No,” she said. “No ambulance.”
“P—”
“I don’t want this to blow up,” Paisley murmured. I looked over at the bartender holding the telephone, about to dial. When he looked at me, I shook my head, and after a moment’s hesitation, he replaced the receiver.
Carefully, I lowered Paisley into a booth in the far corner of the bar, scooting next to her, still supporting her with one arm behind her waist.
“Can I get a whiskey over here?” I called to the bartender. “And some water, please.”
As soon as our drinks were delivered, I helped Paisley take a sip of ice water before drenching a napkin in the second glass and dabbing gently at her busted lip.
“Who the fuck did this to you?” I demanded. “Who hurt you?” Rage seemed to boil over and fall out of me, a fury so hot and deep that the room was closing in on us. I tried to imagine the face of whoever had done this, but all I could see was Paisley, bruised, bloody, and beaten, and the face I tried to imagine was smashed into a pulp, courtesy of me. I continued to dab at the dried blood on her face, but my fingers shook with vehemence. Paisley winced and focused instead on the cuts up and down her arms. As soon as she’d caught her breath and relaxed, I slid the whiskey over to her and locked eyes.
“Now, what in the hell happened to you?”
She lifted the glass to her lips and took a sip, grimacing.
“Someone was having a bad day and decided to take it out on me,” she said. She tried to shrug but could only wince.
“Don’t fucking bullshit me.” I reached one hand up and rested my thumb on her lip, avoiding the cut, trying to find the secret hidden behind her eyes. “Who did this to you? You need to tell me.”
“I don’t know,” Paisley said. “I couldn’t see his face.”
“Someone just jumped you?”
“Yeah, Hansen.”
“Well, did theysaysomething to you?” I hadn’t realized I’d clenched my jaw until it creaked with pain. I forced myself to relax, even though all I felt like doing was murdering someone.
“They didn’t say anything. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He was probably just some drunk asshole in the mood to pick on somebody. That’s all.”
“That’snotall,” I insisted, and images of strange men flashed in front of my vision. My fists curled into balls of white, and I rested my knuckles on the table. “So, it was a male?”
