GIGI
Are you being nice to her?
Sometimes.
GIGI
LMAO You’re such a dick.
This was supposed to be my writing summer, Stan.
GIGI
Well, now it’s your be-a-nice-human summer where you get to show some compassion for the girl whose heart got broken.
Trust me, she’s doing fine.
More than fine, in fact. My shoulders go rigid when I notice Blake chatting with the bartender. She leans against the counter to hear him better over the music. He’s leaning toward her too.
There’s an unsettling amount of leaning happening right now.
Are they flirting? And does he have a mullet?
Who has a mullet this day and age?
Absentmindedly, I type a text while monitoring the situation unfolding across the room. The guy is young, early twenties, but something about the way he’s leering at Blake gives him a creepy old man vibe.
Thoughts on mullets?
GIGI
Your subject changing skills never fail to amaze me.
I don’t like them.
Exactly. Nobody fucking likes them.
At the bar, Blake laughs at something the Mullet says, then touches his arm. It’s light, casual. But intentional. I know that move. I do it all the time. Laugh, lean in, touch the arm.
My hand curls around my empty beer bottle, my grip so tight I’m surprised the glass doesn’t shatter in my palm. I have to remind myself that only twenty minutes ago, I had decided to let her have fun. If she wants to flirt with a guy whose barber should be executed, then fine, I won’t get in her way.
I shift on the stool and force myself to focus on the music. A live trio is playing on the small stage, blasting out an old grunge song. It’s not half bad.
But all I can hear is Blake’s melodic laughter rising over the crashing cymbals.
My gaze unwittingly returns to the bar. The Mullet is even closer now, practically draped over the damn counter. He has way too much confidence for someone wearing that many bracelets. Like, they’re taking up half his arm. One bracelet, cool. That’s punk rock. Some rings, okay. This is extreme. And sad.
When my jaw tightens to the point of pain, I have to forcibly unclench it. Christ. I don’t know why this bothers me so much. This girl is off-limits. I won’t fucking touch her.
But here I am, sitting at a sticky high-top table contemplating murder while Blake smiles at some asshole who doesn’t deserve to be breathing the same air as her.
Not that I do either. She’s too damn good for me. She’s clever and funny and fearless, and she deserves someone who can make her feel…safe. Cherished.
That’s not me. I break women without trying. Without meaning to. They always fall for me, no matter how clear I make it at the beginning that it won’t lead to forever. I’m not built for forever. I can’t commit to one girl, and I certainly can’t be tied down, not when all I desire from this life is to be on the road, touring and making music.
But women always think they’ll be the exception, the ones to make me fall—and they always get hurt. I don’t want to hurt Blake.
And maybe…maybe I’m also resisting opening that door because she looks at me sometimes in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Like she sees straight through the chaos inside me.
