Dread sheathes itself between my breastbone, right next to the worry. I’ll go to the comedy club, because maybe his phone is dead, and then I’ll feel like I own my mind again, because Andy makes everything make sense.
“Boyfriend?” Elliot’s unhappiness is evident as I wipe dust from my hands on the front of my jeans. There was once a time where his happiness was paramount to me, where he’d conned me into being concerned about his contentment. I’d crunch my bones together to make space for him and his feelings, and I’m still shaking myself out from that, I realize as I let his disdain fall off the cliff of me. “Just feels quick. And not quite your thing,” he sort of laughs, and I flick my gaze to the ground before staring him right in the eyes.
“Maybe you just didn’t know me like you thought you did.” I start to move toward the door, only for him to roughly catch my wrist.
“You know that’s a lie. I remember you telling me that you loved how well I knew everything about you,” he says, sly and overconfident. I shake him off.
“No one tells youno, do they?” I look at him in disbelief, pulling in a breath. “You don’t even know what it’s like to nothave your way.” Deep in the recesses of his gaze, I think I’ll find whatever humanity of his used to appeal to me. But it’s all rotten insecurity, shallow control as he scoffs and steps back.
“I should’ve known you’d talk to that reporter. Especially after the abortion.” Annoyance—that’s what I see in his eyes when he mentions it, and I feel sick. “It made you so irrational.”
“What a horrible thing to say,” I whisper, willing the hot, angry tears to stay hidden. “I didn’t talk to that reporter. But maybeI should.” Confusion flares across me, an unwanted heat, and I just need to see Andy. Tell him everything that’s happened so he can help me piece it back together.
“Sloane,” Elliot shouts from behind the threshold, and I stop, wincing. “You know I didn’t mean that. You know what you do to me.”
They’re the kinds of words he’d always used with me because he knew I’d drink them in. And even now, the lack of apology feels irrelevant in the face of his weak, manipulative praise.
Coat pulled tight around me, I wade into the packed bar while a woman holds her own hair back, miming vomiting in the toilet to the sound of raucous laughter. My eyes fly to the billboard, where a WOMEN HAVE THE LAST LAUGH poster is plastered with today’s date.
Andy’s broad back flexes behind the counter with the way his arms must be crossed in front of him, a towel over his shoulder as they shake with quiet amusement. He’s resting against the bar, unaware that I’m here, so I just watch him. The warmth already washes over me, just at the sight of him, and every dark feeling that Elliot pulled to the surface recedes.
Finally, I lean against the deserted bar counter and clear my throat.
He turns, slowly, before startling with shock. “Sloane,” he says, sort of breathlessly, and a nervous scoff leaves me.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you,” I say, raking my teeth over my lip as I fight the urge to launch myself into his arms. He doesn’t move, though; instead, he looks tense, like energy held too tightly, to the point of pain. “What’s wrong?”
He blinks, his throat bobbing before his posture loosens. “Nothing. I just…wasn’t expecting you, is all.” He wears a tired smile and it’s just that—worn, like he’s practicing putting it on.
“I called. Did your phone stop workin’?” I smirk, hoping it disarms him, because this is weird. This is not a figment of my imagination.
He glances around the bar, accounting for the lack of customers, and rounds it, throwing the towel down, gently grasping my arms before tugging me to the back corridor of the club. Only steps away are the stage wings, but here, we’re washed in barely lit darkness. A few feet away is the bathroom door I once found by feeling my way down the wall while Andy fended off a group of out of towners during happy hour.
“Andy. What the hell is happenin’ to you?” I chuckle, still nervous but relieved by the closeness. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I pull him close, desperate to have him through all my senses. He’ll ground me—I know he will. “Why are we hidin’?” I smile against his lips before I feel him press me against the wall, steal the breath from me with his kiss.
With one hand on the nape of my neck, his thumb bracing against my jaw, he holds me in place, the familiar slide of his tongue and feel of his lips cracking me open the way they always do. And then, suddenly, he stops, his forehead falling against mine as we catch our breath.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.” The words feel heavier than they should, said on an outtake of breath as they are, and I lock the night I had away, the dread from earlier slowly filtering away the longer Andy’s hands are on me.
“That’s okay,” I tell him, shaking my head as I run a hand down the side of his beautiful face. And he really is beautiful—a story of a person, one you could never tire of, whose eyes I could float in forever. Whose being is quite literally the place I go to return to myself, like I am right now.
Does he know that? That he’s where I go to be okay?
“I understand. I’m not mad,” I huff a laugh. “I just missed you. Wanted to see your face.”
His amber gaze falls from mine before he manages to lift it, the self-chastisement hard to watch. It’s a look I’d sometimes spy when I didn’t know him yet. When he thought no one was watching. Like he’d done something so awful, and he was turning the rot of it over and over in his mind. That feels so long ago, but I remember.
I start to ask him what’s on his mind, just as he takes my hands in his, holding them in the small space between us.
“I’m glad I got to see you,” his voice rumbles, low and promising, and I fight a smile.
“I’ll come over. After you finish up.”
“I’ll let you know, okay?” I can see the tick of his jaw, even back here, and my head tilts in disappointment. “Give me a few days to get caught up on things. I haven’t cracked open a book in weeks,” he laughs, and the sound softens me. Reminds me to breathe. “How was setting up?” Alarm strikes in his eyes, like he can’t believe he almost forgot, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t satisfy something in me, even if it reminds me of seeing Elliot.
“Fine,” I lie. I won’t tell him now, won’t ruin the little bubble of relief I’ve blown for myself with him, in the dark ofthe club. Later. When he feels better and I’m not reeling from the shit Elliot said to me.
“Good. Good,” he says, the words disappearing as he nods, something unspoken in the back of his gaze.
