“It’s Little Hope, asshole, not Chicago. Get a beer.” She flips him off and walks away.
The guy groans and longingly looks at the bottle in front of me. I wasn’t planning to have a conversation, but the dude looks miserable, so I move my bottle toward him without a word.
“You sure?” he asks hopefully, and I nod.
He lifts his body, leaning over the counter, then grabs a glass and pours himself a hefty drink from my bottle. Swallowing it one gulp just like I did a moment ago, he hopefully looks at the bottle. I take it and pour him another. He nods and takes the glass, pacing this time.
We sit in a surprisingly comfortable silence until I can’t take it anymore.
“So, what got your panties in a twist?”
He half turns his head toward me and lifts a brow. “Are we chitchatting now?”
“Do you have anything else to do?” I ask.
He takes a moment, the glass at his lips. “’Suppose not.” He takes a sip of his drink. “A woman.”
I chuckle. “Thought so.”
“Got one of those yourself?”
“Got many of those.” I laugh.
“So, you got no one?” His question is too… understanding, so I don’t bullshit him this time.
“So, I got no one.”
“I thought I wouldn’t have anyone too, because a long time ago, I had many too.” He looks inside his glass as he swirls the liquid. It’s fascinating. As an artist, I love watching people, and I love watching people making little pieces of art when they don’t even know it. “But then I found someone.”
“Why aren’t you with her?” I’m invested at this point, so I want to know.
“Why do you think I’m not with her?”
I snort at his question, and he continues.
“Fair.” The sigh that follows is painful even for my trained pity ears. “I can never be with her.”
“Romeo and Juliet, are you?”
He shoots me a glance. “Sort of. Plus, being with me is painful for her.”
I recoil back. “Do you abuse her?” My voice comes out as a hiss.
“Fuck no!” He rears back. “I love her, and I would never hurt her. Ever.” His words are full of compassion, and I believe him. “But being with me brings bad memories to the surface. Really bad memories.” He downs the rest of his drink and pours himself another one. “I can’t make her go through that.” He chokes on the words. “I just can’t.”
I choose what to say very carefully. I see a man desperate, on his last breath, and I know how it feels more than most. “Were you a reason she has these bad memories?”
He looks down at the bar, his fingers around the glass going white. “I didn’t know—” He covers his face with his hand. “I didn’t know, but it turns out I was one of the reasons. Yes.”
Well, that’s a bummer. Ignorance of the law doesn’t relieve you from responsibility. “Does she blame you?”
“Not openly, no.” He shakes his head. “But I saw the demons in her eyes.”
At this point, I’m not sure he’s sober enough to talk, because I can barely understand him anymore.
“The demons of the past, you know.” He looks at me. “Those who she sees when she looks at me.”
Fuck that, but do I know. I so desperately want to help him. I so desperately wanted someone to help me, but it’s too late for me now. Maybe he still has time. “Tell me more.”
