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I tentatively take a seat, making sure to leave a couple of empty barstools between us and look at the line of bottles that will help me forget that this day ever happened. Pressing my fingers to my temples, I try to get rid of the headache I already feel from the day’s events. An occasional glass of wine is usually enough for me, but this day calls for something stronger.
“What’ll it be, sweetheart?” The bartender asks as he walks over to me with a warm smile.
My eyes flicker to Aiden next to me, but he hasn’t looked my way. I think it’s safe to say he doesn’t remember me. “Gin and ginger ale with a lime, but if you’re going to call me sweetheart, make it a double.” I internally cringe, hating the way that sounded. On a normal day, I would never snap at someone for no reason. That’s not me. But he calls me sweetheart—or used to—and the words slipped out before I could stop them.
I’m about to apologize to the bartender when I catch a twinge of a smile on Aiden’s lips out of the corner of my eye. I don’t want to look over at him and risk making eye contact, but I’m curious if he knows who I am. If he does, I can’t be a total mess tonight. Word travels fast, and I’d rather not be the talk of the town.
Hunky Bartender grimaces at my remark but recovers quickly enough. “My bad. What’s your name then? So I have something to call you.” He shoots me a gorgeous smile that, on another day, would have probably made me melt, but tonight, it makes me want to roll my eyes.
“Sophie,” I lie.
As soon as the fake name leaves my lips, Aiden’s head snaps in my direction, his blue eyes piercing into me.
Well, great.
He definitely remembers me.
3
Aiden
What the hell is Claire Ackerman doing here, and why did she say her name was Sophie? I know I’m staring at her, but I can’t help it. Last I checked, Claire was onto bigger and better things—not the type of things that would land her in this shithole on a Thursday night.
She looks over at me with an embarrassed smile, and now that she’s facing me, her flushed cheeks and red nose make me think she’s been crying. Let’s just hope she’s over whatever had her upset before. I can’t stand it when girls cry. It’s messy and loud, and it makes me feel weird.
And seeing her like this reminds me of that night.
I force that thought out of my mind as soon as it enters. I’m not who I was in high school. Hell, she probably doesn’t even remember our brief encounter back then. Lord knows I’ve tried to forget it.
I haven’t seen Claire since we graduated—not that we were friends. I don’t think she would have liked my friends back then. She was too smart to talk to us. Mike had a crush on her at one point but ended up abandoning his efforts because he didn’t think she’d put out.
I sneak a glance at Jasmine to see if she’s noticed our newest visitor, but she’s still pretending one of the guys at the end of the bar might be lucky enough to take her home tonight.
I doubt Jasmine would remember Claire anyway. The girls who hung out with us back then weren’t the type to notice Claire, but I think every guy in that school noticed her—even if they never did anything about it because they knew better.
I look back over at the girl in a sundress. “Sophie, huh?”
She tenses, clearly surprised that I’m speaking to her, but after taking a long sip of her drink, she shrugs. “You can never be too careful.”
My eyes fall to the new guy, Erik. “I don’t think you’re his type.”
Her eyes widen, giving me a wounded look, and probably on the brink of tears again. Wow, it only took two sentences to offend her. That has to be a new record. “Apparently, no girl is his type,” I offer. It’s too early for me to be the biggest dick here. Before I can shove my foot further down my throat, I say, “You’re Claire Ackerman.” This seems to catch her off guard because her lips part in surprise. I take another sip of my beer, and without looking at her, I ask, “What are you doing back here anyway? Aren’t you in school?”
She blinks a few times, collecting herself. “I am.”
“But now you’re here.”
She takes another sip of her drink. “Very intuitive, Aiden Lewis.”
Her comment gets a laugh out of me. I like how she’s trying to level the playing field by knowing my name.
“I thought it’d be fun to come home for the weekend, but I was wrong.” She says the words as she looks down at the cup between her hands, twirling the small straw around in a circle. They don’t even serve drinks in real glasses here. Instead, we get clear plastic that crumples if you grip too hard.
Red flags go up in the back of my mind. I don’t know Claire. I didn’t really know her in high school, and I sure as hell don’t know her now. I’m not trying to listen to this girl vent for the rest of the night.
I’d rather go home and listen to Mike screw Cindy.
“Uh...” I struggle to think of a safe way to respond without opening the floodgates.
