“I can’t,” I say. My voice is barely audible. Maybe he’s right, maybe I can be brave and vulnerable, maybe I am strong enough to stand up to my mother and to embrace my flaws. But maybe it’s all fake, maybe I only feel this way because of the tattoo, because I can visualize my feelings and make sense of them. And how will I ever know if I don’t remove it?
“I will love you for the rest of my life and the one beyond this existence. I will love you with every breath and fiber of my being, every version of you, in every lifetime. You can’t take that away from me. But I know now that I can’t make you love me back,” Sam says, no louder than a whisper. He wipes his red-rimmed eyes on the sleeve of his suit jacket briefly before glancing at me one last time and walking away.
As I watch him leave, a scream that sounds like it’s from a wounded animal rips out of me. I crumple to the cobblestones in agony. I think I just made a huge mistake, but I didn’t have a choice. I’m so frustrated that I didn’t have a choice. Irina left me no choice. Ari and Howie rush over to me quickly. Ari sinks to the ground, wrapping an arm around my shoulders, whispering, “everything is going to be okay, Ollie.”
thirty
Sam
The Breakup Bender
Sometimes walking away is the hardest thing to do, especially when every bone in your body is screaming not to. I couldn’t stay, she didn’t want me to stay. And I refuse to stand idly by and watch her repeat the same mistakes she already made. I guess the argument could be made that I helped her look for Irina, that I went to the cottage. But this is different—Olive knew she was there tonight, that seeing her would decide a fate that I believe was already determined.
The thing is, while I enjoyed watching her arm paint her feelings into a vivid picture, it wasn’t ever something I truly usedto my benefit. Looking back on it, outside of sex, I often didn’t even think about her tattoo being there. Also, as the oldest child, does she not think I’ve had my own pressures to be perfect throughout the years? My own set of expectations to deal with? I understand that Olive has parents who never told her she was valuable, never loved her unconditionally. But isn’t that the exact same way she treated me in the end . . . like being with me had stipulations?
I take the steps up to my house, my gut churning with each one. I don’t want to be here, to step inside and confront memories of the time we shared in this place. But I also can’t remain as Johnny Rose forever. I have to manage my way through it. Turning my key in the lock, I push inside with one singular focus—grab a bag, a few changes of clothes, and get the fuck out.
Hustling through the house, I slide on a pair of black denim jeans, a T-shirt, my leather jacket, and some boots. Grabbing a few extra outfits, I snag my helmet from the hook by the door and race back out. Olive and I only spent one night here, but I can feel her everywhere. Until I’m ready to move on, I’m avoiding this place. Call it denial, but I know it’ll take a while for it to sink in that it’s over between us.
I sling my clothes into the saddlebag of my Harley, tug my helmet on, and peel out of the driveway. My initial thought was to go to Xavier’s, then I remembered that Cami probably isn’t up for a wallowing houseguest. Going to Mom’s isn’t an option. She would demand every detail, and parts of this I can’t explain to her. So, with nowhere exactly to land—my siblings would also turn me into Mom—I take the on-ramp heading toward Golden City. It’s directly south and larger than Mage Hollow by at least ten times. I won’t know anyone there.
I’m not much of a city guy; I prefer the solitude of my cabin (which would also remind me of her) and the tiny town I grew upin. But I’ve been to the city on occasion for hockey, and right now anything different sounds like exactly what I need to clear my head. It’s not a far drive, just thirty miles of cool wind whipping in my face and the rumble of my bike’s engine vibrating between my thighs. Plenty of time to burn off some of this nervous energy and lean into drinking my feelings.
Spotting a sports bar on the first blue exit sign for Golden City, I pull off the highway and follow the arrow pointing to the left. It’s not hard to spot, with a big neon sign glowing Sports Bar in the window. There are several cars in the parking lot, always a good sign, so I proceed to park close to the door.
Pushing my kickstand out, I step off my bike and place my helmet on the seat. I take a deep breath, smoothing a hand down my face, realizing I forgot to remove the fucking eyebrows. Peeling them off and tossing them in the trash can by the door, I step inside. It’s not fancy, which is perfect for what I need.
A brown-haired ball of energy blazes past me with a tray of food in her hand, saying, “Have a seat wherever,” before continuing to a table full of people. Instead of choosing a booth, I do what I came to do and belly up to the wooden bar. A few minutes pass before the same woman slinks behind it, approaching me.
“Can I get you a menu, or what are you drinking?” She places her hands flat on the bar, leaning toward me, I think to take in my tattoos. Or maybe just me in general.
“Irish whiskey, neat. No food.”
Her eyebrow pops up and I notice, objectively, how hot she is. With tattoos of her own, curves that could kill, and an adorable smile—if I wasn’t in love with someone else, I’d probably ask her out. “Who hurt you, stranger?” she asks, shifting to put her balled up fist on her hip.
“How do you know anyone did?” I’m taken aback by the question. I must look awful for it to be this obvious. “I could just be here for a drink.”
She moves to grab a rocks glass, pulling the green bottle from the shelf behind her and pouring two fingers. Instead of placing the drink down in front of me, she runs it under her nose, taking a minute to smell it. “I’ve been doing this far too long. I know a broken heart when I see one.” She finally sets the glass down and slides it to me. I can’t help but grin at her. She’s kind of funny with her sassy attitude.
“Why’d you smell my drink?” I lift it slowly, mimicking the move she did while savoring the smoky aroma.
She laughs, and it’s half-hearted at best. “Because I can’t drink on the job, and it felt like I might need to for this conversation.” She nods toward the customers out at the tables. “I’ll be back and then you’re gonna tell me what happened.”
I sip my drink, slowly at first, but once the smooth amber liquid hits my throat, I down the rest. There’s a hockey game for the Golden City Flames playing on the TVs that hang above the bar. Shaking my head, I watch Drew Anderson float across the ice like he was made to do it. I hate to say anything about my brother that’s less than stellar but watching Golden City's star on the ice—I don’t know if Max will ever achieve his dream. I’m not sure he could keep up at that level, and my heart aches just thinking about his disappointment.
The bartender slides back in front of me, filling my glass and winking flirtatiously. A weird guilty sensation creeps into my belly. I should be with Olive right now, not sitting in a random bar. “So, what’s the deal, she cheat on you?”
I huff a laugh. Honestly, that would be easier to explain. “Nope, just couldn’t choose me at the end of the day,” I say, swallowing hard, then tossing back the drink she gave me and tapping my finger to the rim for a refill. “What’s your name? Ifeel like I should know who you are if I’m going to pour my heart out.”
“Brooke, and what does that even mean? Did you give her an ultimatum or some shit?” The sassy woman refills my glass and waits for an answer. I guess I sort of did, but it’s more complicated than that.
I shrug. “Maybe, fuck if I know . . . It all happened so fast. One minute we were celebrating Halloween, and the next she was accusing me of only being with her because it’s easy.” I know I’m making this situation sound a lot simpler than it is, but there’s only so much I can say without bringing up the Irina thing.
Brooke sticks a finger in the air and says, “Hold that thought, table eight’s food is ready.” She rushes out from behind the bar, and I’m left with my thoughts. I meant what I said to Olive, that I’ll love her for the rest of my life. At thirty-two, I’ve dated, I’ve seen what’s out there, and what we have is special. I know with my whole heart she’s my person—which makes it all that much worse that I’m not hers.
Shaking my head, I stand to go to the bathroom and realize the three drinks I’ve had are starting to hit me. I’m not wasted, but I can feel the warm buzz sinking into my veins. I handle my business quickly, but when I come back out, the brunette bartender is sitting in the barstool next to mine with a beer in front of her.
“Thought you couldn’t drink while you’re working,” I say, sliding back into my seat. The jukebox is playing Bon Jovi, and she's swaying a little to the beat.
