I can curse and call him names, all the bad fucking names that I can think of because how the fuck is he here tonight?
How. The. Fuck?
Shouldn’t he be away, at college?
He goes to college in New York City because that’s where all the rich kids from our town go, apparently. And it’s not even holiday season. It’s fucking September. People have classes in September.
What the fuck is he doing here in fucking September? That fucking asshole bastard.
That motherfucking asshole bastard.
That motherfucking assholedouchebagbastard.
I try to think of other bad words that I can call him as I take another pull of this terrible whiskey when a shadow falls on me, long and pervasive.
Pitch black.
I’m standing outside the bar, my spine propped against the brick wall, the liquor bottle clutched between my fingers.
As soon as I saw him in the bar, I froze for a few seconds. I thought I was dreaming until my friends started asking me questions about him. And well, it wasn’t hard for them to deduce that he is the guy. He’s the reason I’m at St. Mary’s.
And as soon as they realized that, I made a beeline for the whiskey, which I basically forced Will, the bartender and my brother’s friend, into giving me and got the heck out of there. Because I couldn’t be in the same room as Reed.
So this shadow that’s rapidly growing closer could belong to anyone. A stranger. And since there’s no one else around except a row of trashcans on my left, I should be afraid.
I’m not though.
My heart isn’t pounding out of fear. It’s pounding out of anger. And knowledge. My breaths are spasming and breaking because I know that shadow.
Even though I haven’t felt it in two years, I know it.
I know the guy walking toward me, prowling even, in lazy, languid steps.
Somehow I knew that he’d seek me out. I knew he’d come for me because just when I saw him, he saw me as well. And when he reaches me, I realize that maybe I shouldn’t have left the confines of the bar.
I shouldn’t have come outside, all alone.
Because in this moment, as he stands before me, I also realize that I was wrong before.
I said that my heart wasn’t pounding out of fear. I lied.
There is fear.
Oh yeah, there is – among other things – and because of it, I’m not looking at him.
I can’t.
Maybe because as long as I don’t look at him, I can pretend that he isn’t here. That Ididn’tsee him at the bar and I’m not drinking whiskey because of him.
It’s stupid logic but I think I’m allowed that because God, heishere.
But anyway, I chicken out and avert my eyes from his large, dark frame and look at something else. Something over his shoulders, a bright white thing that practically demands all my attention.
His white mustang.
His baby. That’s what he used to call it when I knew him.
It’s parked in the lot behind us and it’s so freaking shiny and posh and so out of place in this area of Bardstown that even if I wanted to look at something else, I wouldn’t be able to.
