Page 67 of Unbound
Zack brings us both a couple shots and then leaves, like he knows the two of us have a lot to talk about and is giving us the room to do so. The thing is, I don’t know that we can talk. Like how do you even being to discuss the hurt between us and everything we’ve left unsaid for the last three years, let alone the last three days?
Rawley smiles and I take in every inch of him. It’s been so long since I sawthislook—him relaxed, face flushed and eyes bright. He’s drunk, but it’s still him. He’s not too far gone that he doesn’t remember there’s something between us, yet he’s drunk enough he’s not letting it get in the way. I guess in some ways, I’m doing the same.
“It’s nice to see you smile,” I tell him taking a seat at the bar with him.
He watches me set my wallet on the counter, his stare traveling up my arm to my face. “I could say the same about you.” For once, the words aren’t spoken with bitterness. They’re soft and careful.
It’s different being this close to him. There’s familiarity but so much is left unsaid between the two of us. It’s almost awkward.
My eyes find solace in the wood grain of the bar. “Do you realize how many stories this bar has? How many memories it holds for all of us in this town?”
He swallows, nodding before taking another shot. My eyes dart to his talented fingers wrapped around the shot glass. “If walls could talk, huh?” And then he nods again.
Crap. Even his nod is sexy, and the alcohol inside of me is heightening every sensation I have to the point where I know this is going to be one of those times I actually talk to him. Maybe this is what we need.
With his elbows resting on the bar, his hands find his hair. “I’ve said and done a lot of shitty things in the confines of these walls, and I’m sorry for that.”
“There’s a part of me that wants to say, it’s okay. I forgive you.” My voice is choked up, thick with sadness, and I know it bothers him. He’s visibly bothered by it when I see his eyes gloss. I feel tears building, but I push them back. “But you hurt me badly, over and over again to prove a point, and it’s hard to get past that, Rawley. I won’t lie and tell you it’s not.”
“I know that,” he replies, a small furrow to his brows.
“I know you do. I’m not trying to make you feel shitty.”
His face drops forward. Catching my eyesight, his brow furrows, lines forming around the outer corners. “I… I wanted to tell you—”
“No,” I interrupt, knowing what he’s about to say. Though I want him to say it, he doesn’t need to. I know I overreacted the other night and never gave him a chance to explain. There’s one thing I can say about the night I destroyed Rawley, the night I told him about Mexico. He never interrupted me. He let me explain. Yeah, I lied and said it was a mistake, and maybe that’s why he never interrupted me. He was giving me the opening to tell him the truth, yet I didn’t.
But the other night when I saw the papers and the idea of him not wanting his son, I overreacted and assumed immediately he hadn’t changed. I never gave him an opening, nor did Iwantto believe he didn’t do it.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because he looks as lost as I feel. “I know you didn’t want to sign off on your parental rights.”
“I would never,” he tells me, sounding wounded. “I want to be a part of his life if you’ll let me.”
His or ours?I want to ask, but I don’t. I’m not sure my heart can take the answer just yet.
It’s hard to know what to say next because yes, we’ve had some drinks, but we can barely hear anything around us with the number of people in the bar, and honestly, I don’t know if he’ll remember anything we’re saying.
I can’t stop myself from the word vomit that follows. “You’re different now. I couldn’t place it at first… but I see it now when your guard is down, here, drinking and laughing. You finally see the hurt you’ve caused everyone.”
Oh God, stop talking.
I don’t.
My heart trembles when our eyes catch, his breathing shallow and uneven.
“I thought when you left, I never wanted to see you again. No, I knew I never wanted to see you again. Then I got pregnant. More than anything, I wished the baby wasn’t yours.” His breath catches, the heaviest weight hitting him. My heart begins to stumble over what I want to say next because I don’t want to hurt him, being vindictive isn’t me. “I hated myself for thinking that. Then when Lyric was born, I was reminded of the you I fell in love with, because everything I loved about you, he has.” Everything’s out of focus when I blink. “The smile, the energetic personality, it’s all there. He has every good quality you have. So when you came back, I couldn’t deny I was hopeful maybe you’d see him for what he is, a miracle. The best of both of us from a night we were at our worst.”
The sharpness of what I said cuts him deep like razor wires dragging across his skin. Sore eyes linger on mine. “Sophie….” Reaching across the bar when he’s bumped from behind, Rawley slides his hand to mine and covers it. I relax immediately at his touch. He leans in to me when he speaks, a conversation and words meant only for me. “We don’t have to talk about this right now.” His breath blows over me, whiskey and sweet cherry. “I’m not going anywhere.”
When he draws back, I watch his face and eyes. I know why he can’t talk about it because he’s nearing tears. “What do you mean? Are you staying in Lebanon? What about your music?”
He inhales deeply and his chest expands, drawing his black T-shirt tight on his shoulders. My stare moves to his mouth as he says, “I’m in a contract right now. We have five shows left in California and then I don’t know….”
It’s left open-ended, as if he honestly doesn’t know where or what he’s doing next. His expression is lost, much like his words. “You’re not giving up Torque and your music, are you?”
“No.” He shakes his head like he never entertained the idea. “Definitely not, but I don’t know.” He takes another shot in front of him, gauging me with cautious eyes. “I miss this, the local stuff. Friday and Saturday nights at the bar…. This... you know, where the memories are made.”
He rubs his hand along his scruffy jaw and focuses his attention on me. Apprehension constricts my lungs and locks up my throat at the words “memories are made” because I know what he’s referring to. Memories we made in this place long before I used to sit here on Saturday nights and subject myself to the bitter lyrics he’d sing clearly meant for me and a heartache I caused. It was a time when he’d serenade me here, long before we were supposed to be in this bar, a place where’d he’d tell me how he felt about me in a way that was effortless and authentic.
