Page 46 of Hard to Love

9 Years Ago

THE BAR IS CROWDED FOR a Thursday, but it’s downtown and that means anything goes most nights. The music being piped in through the speakers is low and bluesy and fitting for the crowd—mid- to late-twenties, not too trendy and more urban professional. Glasses clink and talk is constant

I slide onto a seat at the bar beside my friend, Gabe, and sigh. I’m in town trailing Carson around trying to learn the ropes and even though Gabe moved on to the NFL, we still try to get together at least once a month when we can.

“It’s been a long fucking week, man.”

“Longest of long,” he murmurs before taking a long tug on his bottle of beer before shaking his head. “Got dumped by my girl, strained my fucking groin so I’m out for a few weeks, and got rear-ended by somebody.”

“You win.” I hold my hands up in mock surrender. “You definitely win.”

“I’d attempt to pick up the hot chick across the bar, but just my luck, she’d be a dude or have three tits or something,” he mutters and then laughs, completely consumed by his own misery.

“I thought all you had to do was say you play for the NFL and chicks fall at your feet.”

He looks down at the ground around us. “Just proved that theory wrong.”

“Fuck off,” I say around a laugh as the bartender slides my drink in front of me.

“Gladly but then you’d miss me.”

“So? Which hot chick are we talking about?” I’m already looking, ready to be his wingman . . . or perhaps to fly solo and approach her myself if he’s too chickenshit to do it himself.

He lifts his chin in the direction of an auburn-haired woman whose back is to us. She’s svelte with curls tumbling down her back and a sophistication about her that money can’t buy.

“Not bad, huh?”

“Not bad if you prefer looking at her from behind.”

“The front’s even better.”

“Maybe she’s just what you need to get over what’s-her-name?” I suggest when I most definitely know his ex’s name. How can I not when we may have fooled around a bit before they started dating? “How about I go be a wingman for you? See if she’s single and interested?”

“The last thing I need is you to go talk to her for me. The last time you talked to a chick on my behalf you banged her like three hours later.”

I laugh into my glass of whiskey and shrug. “You can’t exactly blame me for being her type.”

“Fucker,” he mumbles playfully as I push my seat back and stand.

“I’ll make up for it now,” I say and give a cheesy smile.

I move around the bar, scoping out prospects for myself as I go and lean my elbow on the bar just behind the woman of interest.

“So, I have a friend,” I say just above the chatter of the bar. “And he’s a little nervous to come over and talk to you so I told him I’d—” And my words trail off when the woman turns to face me. She may be older now—the freckles I used to think were adorable are gone, her face slimmer and more mature, her hair definitely darker—but I’d know those eyes anywhere. “Molly?”

It takes a second for me to believe it’s really her as recognition slowly etches the lines of her face.

“Finn? Finn Sanderson?”

She looks at me with the same disbelief I feel but I’m more than sure she doesn’t experience the pang of hurt I do—even after seven years.

“That’s me.” For the first time in my life, I don’t even know what to say.

“Oh my God. Hi.” She grabs me in a quick hug as her laugh fills the air, and I’m not one hundred percent sure why I don’t enthusiastically hug her back.

I should be over what happened. Her kiss by the gym with someone whose name I don’t even remember was years—hell, a lifetime—ago and doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things . . . but it does.

She was my first love.