Cooper glanced over his shoulder at the dark-haired guy who was watching him from the other side of the bar, his head nodding slightly to the beat of the music. When Cooper caught his eye, the guy looked away bashfully and then immediately back in that age-old flirting move. “Ron. He works at the sandwich shop next to Brews. Do you mind if I go say hi and then I’ll be right back?”
“Not at all. You go. I’m good.”
“You sure?”
She pushed him. “Yes. I’m fine.”
With a smile, Cooper headed off in Ron’s direction, Ron’s face lighting up with obvious delight at Cooper’s approach. Her heart squeezed. She had a sudden desire to run for the door, to throw it open and inhale the fresh, open air. Let it cleanse her if that were possible. The crowd bore down again. Oppressive. Stifling.
She placed her empty glass on the bar and moved toward the dance floor, looking for Reagan. “You’re a bitch,” someone said from her left. She whipped her head toward the low, whispered words and saw the guy in the red shirt she’d ditched on the dance floor. He was leaning against a pillar and she blinked at him, unease skittering down her spine along with a jolt of embarrassment as she ducked into the crowd.
I am. I am a bitch, I really am.
She found Reagan a few minutes later just walking off the dance floor, her arm around Evan as they laughed. Reagan looked joyful and slightly drunk, a sheen of sweat making them both glow. “My bestie,” she said, throwing her arms around her. “You’re so pretty. Isn’t she pretty, Evan? God, you’re so pretty, I hate you.” Okay, a little more than slightly drunk. “I love this girl,” she crooned, kissing her on the cheek. Josie laughed despite her desire to get out of there.
“I love you too, Rea. I’m going to head home.”
“Home? No! We just got here.”
“I’m not feeling great.”
She gave her a disbelieving look, but before she could say anything else, Josie hugged her again. “It’s only a couple of blocks. I’ll text you when I get there.”
“I could walk you home,” Evan offered.
She met his intense gaze and shook her head. “No, seriously, you take care of this girl. I’ll text you,” she said again to Reagan, moving away from them both, Reagan’s outstretched hand dropping from hers. She blew her a kiss. “See you soon,” Josie mouthed, raising her hand and blowing a kiss back. Reagan pretended to catch it and hold it to her chest, the crowd swallowing her up as Josie turned away.
Although it was officially spring in Cincinnati, a cool night breeze washed over Josie’s heated skin and caused a chill. She wrapped her arms around her body as she began walking the short distance toward home. She and Reagan lived in an apartment in Clifton, an area of Cincinnati that rented to many of the local college students. It was close to school, and it had a decent nightlife within walking distance, one she and Reagan were enjoying thoroughly using their fake IDs. The streets were well lit and still occupied by people going to and from bars and restaurants, even though it was past midnight.
A couple laughed as they walked past, the woman’s eyes bright, arms clasped through the man’s. He looked down at her adoringly. Josie looked away, loneliness spearing through her. She should have gone over and talked to that older man. Why hadn’t she? Maybe she should go back, see if he was still there, invite him home. But then she remembered the crowd, the overwhelming feeling of being suffocated by all those people. The heat. The noise, when she’d been craving quiet.
She took her phone from her pocket as she walked, telling herself she’d regret dialing his number, but doing it anyway. She just wanted to listen to his outgoing message. Hear his voice. That was all. Maybe it would help remind her why she’d broken things off. Her stomach clenched—with excitement, dread—as the phone rang, once, twice, and then his voice picked up, clipped. “Hello?”
Heart galloping, she stayed quiet, stepping to the curb as though he might be able to tell it was her from the sound of her footsteps. She’d gotten a new number; he wouldn’t recognize it.
“Hello?” he repeated. She heard something in the background. The very low hum of traffic? Was he out too? “Josie?” At the sound of her name, her heart jumped and she hung up quickly, her self-loathing surging once more.
“Shit,” she whispered. How had he known it was her? Because you’re the only pathetic woman he knows, her mind whispered. And why had she done that? Why? Because it was that time of night when alcohol and melancholy tricked you into thinking bad ideas could end well, that was why. How many times had she given in to that feeling? Too many. She’d feel better in the morning, she knew. But for that moment, yearning tore through her, the longing for something she wasn’t even sure she could put into words. You’re drunk, Josie. Just get home and go to bed. Stop torturing yourself.
Her apartment came into sight, and she sent Reagan a quick text letting her know she’d made it home. She tripped slightly, catching herself, wobbling on her heels. “Little too much to drink?” came a voice.
She let out an alarmed squeal, bringing her hand to her chest when she saw it was just the downstairs neighbor, sitting casually in the lone chair to the right of the building’s front door. “Hi,” she greeted with a tight smile as she walked gingerly up the steps. “Kinda chilly out here, isn’t it?”
“I d-don’t mind,” he stuttered, his eyes darting away quickly and then back to hers. His cheeks flushed. He wasn’t a bad-looking guy, just awkward and sort of gawky. Strange. She felt the weight of his presence, his proximity, as she pulled her key out of her small purse. Her scalp prickled, his eyes boring into her as
she stood directly next to him, unlocking the door. He’s harmless, she told herself. Creepy, but harmless. The key slipped and she fumbled, the scent of him meeting her nose—something vaguely tropical, pineapple or coconut. A mixture maybe. What was it? A hair product? An odd scent for a man. Too sweet. Unpleasant.
The lock clicked open and she turned to her neighbor—what was his name? He’d told her his name and she’d forgotten—giving him a quick smile. He startled slightly at her movement, his gaze shooting to hers. She saw desire in it. Desire and a sort of . . . indecision. Like he was contemplating saying something but wasn’t sure he should. “Well, goodnight,” she said quickly, scooting in the door and closing it behind her as she jogged up the stairs, holding her breath until she made it to the top, half expecting to hear her name called from below before she could safely enter her apartment. She unlocked the door and flipped the lock, standing on the other side for a moment, catching her breath. She let out a small laugh that ended in a groan, shaking her head at herself as she pushed away from the door. “Silly,” she muttered. “Paranoid.” The awkward man was no threat. If he asked her out—and she had a sense he would sooner rather than later—she’d simply say thanks but no thanks.
Her cell phone rang, jarring her from her thoughts and she froze as she saw whose number it was. He was calling back the number that had just hung up on him. Me.
Shit, shit, shit. She suddenly felt more sober. And smarter than she’d been five minutes ago. Sucked how her good sense could seemingly fade in and out that way. She couldn’t let her voicemail answer. She jabbed at the phone, answering it but not speaking. “Hello?” came his voice. Her stomach knotted, and she clenched her eyes shut. Despite her best efforts, longing singed her nerves. There was a pause before he said, “Josie, I know it’s you.” When she still didn’t answer, he sighed. “Meet me, Josie. Or I can come there—” She disconnected the call, hurriedly dialing her voicemail and changing it to an anonymous electronic greeting. And now she’d need to change her number again. I’m such an idiot, she thought. Such a weak, pathetic idiot.
In the bathroom, she stared at her face. Alcohol and self-recrimination mixed, and for the flash of a moment she was back there, in that small dingy bathroom in the house where she’d grown up, staring at her own stricken expression in the mirror above the sink while she listened to her parents’ angry yells, the inevitable crash of something breaking, her mother’s screams, the door slamming as her father left. She closed her eyes, remembering how it’d felt. Why was she thinking of that?
Quickly, she turned on the water and scrubbed her face free of makeup, tearing off the false lashes she’d applied a few hours before, the glue leaving angry red marks on her lids.
She climbed into bed and lay staring at the ceiling for several minutes, a lump lodged in her chest, an ache inside that she had no clue how to heal. Thankfully, sleep took hold, pulling her gently under its feathery wing.