I finish my tea, set the mug on the floor, and pull the blanket tighter around myself.The rain's still falling, steady and relentless, and somewhere out there Tank's probably home by now.Back to his life.His club.His ghosts.
And I'm here.Alone.The way I should be.The way I need to be.
For Warren.
For myself.
I close my eyes, trying to will sleep to come, but all I see is Tank's face.Those dark eyes.That careful mouth.The way he looked at me like I was worth looking at.
"Stop," I whisper again.
But I can't.
I can't stop thinking about him.Can't stop feeling his hands on my skin.Can't stop wondering who Emma was and why she's still so present in his head that her name slipped out in the middle of?—
No.I'm not doing this.I'm not torturing myself over a man I barely know.
I roll onto my side and pull the blanket over my head like I'm a child hiding from monsters.
But the monsters are in my head now.And they all have Tank's face.
I don't sleep.
Not really.
I drift in and out, caught in that gray space between consciousness and dreams where everything feels heavy and wrong.Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that moment, his voice breaking on her name, my body going rigid, the sick drop in my stomach.
When pale light finally starts filtering through the windows, I give up and drag myself off the couch to check on Warren.He's still asleep, covers kicked off, sprawled across my bed like a starfish.
I pull the blanket back over him and press a kiss to his temple.
He's why I'll be fine.
Why I have to be fine.
I make coffee—strong, black—then stand at the kitchen window and watch the city wake up.Dublin looks gray and tired in the early morning light, streets still wet from the rain.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ciara, the other bartender from last night.
You alright?Saw you leave with Tank.He seemed intense.
I stare at the message for a long moment then delete it without responding.
I'm not talking about this.Not with Ciara, not with anyone.
It didn't happen.
Last night didn't happen.
Tank doesn't exist.
I repeat it to myself like a mantra, taking another sip of coffee, trying to believe it.
But when I close my eyes, I can still feel his hands.
I still hear his voice.
I still taste him on my lips.
