forty-two
Cassandra
"I really don’t wantto leave my apartment,” I mutter, feeling sorry for myself. My home has felt overly empty over the last...I don’t know, seven days.
Not that I’m counting.
Harley would usually be here with me, or we would be at his place together, but we haven’t seen each other in seven long days, and it’s beenhard. I've hated every single second of it.
It feels like longer, though, because the last time we actually saw each other, he wouldn’t even look me in the eye. So really, it’s been nearly three weeks—aka, an eternity.
My sisters surprised me by knocking on my front door tonight, forcing me to get my ass off the couch and stop moping around. But I didn’t want to when they asked, and I still don't want to and it's an hour later. I just want to be alone, but Lizzie can't grasp the concept of spending more than two days locked indoors, shocked that I've spent the last seven.
I hoped that if I'd stayed home, Harley would show up. I thought that maybe if I left the house, he would knock on my door, and I wouldn’t be here waiting for him.
Deep down, I knew that day wouldn’t come. Not this soon, anyway.
Bea told me that he needed space, and I want to respect that.His whole life was flipped entirely on its head, and he needed time to process and deal with it. To go through old trauma that feels new and raw. He needed to give himself time to heal.
He tried to spend Thanksgiving by himself. Mom told me to invite him over to my parents' place for dinner, but he'd texted back to say that he'd be spending it with Bea, Laney and Robbie. At least he wasn’t alone.
"Too bad.” Lizzie’s voice is loud and firm.When she’s determined, she always gets her way. And right now, she wants to take me out for drinks.I would love to think I have a choice in the matter, but I don’t. I don’t know why I ever bother to put up a fight.
"Bea said she has a booth reserved for us. Bridie’s is apparently quiet tonight, so it’ll be low-key. You need to get out of the house,” Olive chimes in, while Lizzie is rummaging through my wardrobe. If Olive says the night is going to be chill, I believe her.
If Lizzie were to say it, I would run for the hills.
"Here. Wear these jeans with this red leotard, these heels, and…here, take this jacket. It’s cold out.”
Yes, Mom.
I reluctantly take the clothes from her, but not without rolling my eyes and muttering gibberish under my breath. She needs to know that I’m doing this against my will.
"Happy?” I ask, as I walk out of my bathroom, wearing every piece of clothing I was handed. I’ve added my signature redlip, put some concealer under my eyes to hide the dark circles (thanks, insomnia), and taken my hair out of its ponytail, letting it fall around my shoulders.
"It’ll do.” She huffs, a mischievous smirk slapped across her face. Dragging me by the arm, the three of us head out the door.
"How are you doing?” Bea asks as I slump myself down on a barstool, resting my elbow on the bar top, my cheek heavy in the palm of my hand.
"I’m okay.” I smile softly at her and she smiles back. "How is he doing?” I hold my breath while waiting for a reply, but she just shakes her head in response.I don’t know if she just doesn’t want to talk about it because she doesn’t want to hurt my feelings, or he’s asked her to not talk about it with me. Or, she just doesn’t know because he hasn’t spoken to her about it either.
Regardless of the reasoning, I don’t pry.
"What drinks are you after?” she asks, changing the subject, and I’m grateful for the distraction.
"Two margaritas and a coke, please.”
"You got it.”
Handing over the money, I watch as she makes our drinks, and a loud commotion comes from the door, telling me the Bridie’s just went from chill to rowdy in a matter of seconds.
One guy is wearing a t-shirt with thumbs pointing at his face and writing that says ‘this guy’s getting married’ and I can't stop the laugh that rumbles in my chest.
"Here you go,” Bea says, and I focus my attention back to her to thank her for the drinks. "Enjoy those. And hey, Cass? Don’t take it too personally, okay? He’s going through a lot. He just needs time to process,” she reassures me, and I give my thanks in a nod before heading back toward the booth, where my sisters are waiting patiently for their first drink of the night.
It doesn’t take long before one drink has turned into four, then five, then six, and I can hear my words slurring no matter how hard I concentrate.
"The next round is on me,” a voice calls from over my shoulder, coming from a man I don’t recognize.
