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“Stole? Hardly. It accidentally made its way into my clean clothes bin when I was doing laundry and I haven’t had the chance to give it back to you yet. I’ve been using it as a rag.”
“I’ve seen you wear it three times,” he challenges, emphasizing his words with a devious gotcha smile.
I lift my chin. “Oh? Well, I must have grabbed it by mistake.”
“Uh-huh.” He takes a sip of his beer.
Kieran clears his throat. “Uh, sorry if everyone knows this already, but I’m new here, so I feel like I could use some backstory. Did you guys used to date or something?”Chapter EighteenConnorNatalie and I both say “No” at the same time like it’s a contest to see who can speak first. Then we glare at one another as if the other person is in the wrong for making it sound as if the last thing on earth we’d ever want to do is date.
Kieran nods slowly, as if he’s starting to understand. “Okay, right, but you’ve hooked up?”
Lindsey chokes on her drink. Natalie’s cheeks turn the color of Flaming Hot Cheetos. Miguel pretends to only have eyes for the baseball game, and Daniel just looks constipated. Or maybe he looks horrified. Whatever. Tonight, he’s not my favorite person, especially when he speaks up and tries to come to Natalie’s rescue, going so far as to sling his arm across the booth behind her. “No man, Connor is best friends with her older brother.”
Kieran narrows his eyes, still studying us. “Uh-huh…and why does that matter?”
Daniel scoffs. “Because it’s bro code 101.”
Guilt hits me in the stomach like a lead pipe.
Lindsey groans. “Oh come on, Daniel. What does that even mean? Natalie is an adult. If she doesn’t have autonomy over her body and her actions then who does?”
Daniel immediately blanches. “Sure. Of course. I wasn’t suggesting otherwise. It’s just…”
I glance over at Natalie, wondering if I should try to come to her defense and shut this conversation down, but she immediately shoots to her feet.
“Would you guys excuse me for a second?” she asks, her voice slightly higher than normal as she struggles to exit the booth.
I leap up, and so does Daniel. She could go out of the booth either way and her first instinct is to turn toward him, but she has to reluctantly turn back in my direction when she discovers Daniel’s way is blocked by another table. Miguel scoots out quickly so she can scurry past us. My hand shoots out to catch her arm, to slow her progress, to force her to meet my eyes so I can tell her I’m sorry for everything. She jerks out of my grasp and the momentum carries her backward so she stumbles and sideswipes a passing waitress. Beers clatter to the ground. Glass shatters into tiny shards and Natalie immediately bends down as if she’s going to help clean up the mess, apologies spilling out of her.
“I’m so sorry,” she tells the waitress, sounding near tears.
I loop my hands under her arms and try to get her away from the scene.
“Natalie, they’ve got it,” I assure her as she struggles against me. “C’mon, you can’t pick up glass with your bare hands. You’re a surgeon—those hands are probably insured for half a mil each.”
It’s meant to be a joke—something to lighten the mood—but she doesn’t take it as one and how the hell am I failing so badly at this?
I drop my hands and she doesn’t waste a second before hurrying off in the direction of the bathrooms. I feel paralyzed, watching her run from me. I’ve never felt so utterly helpless, so frozen in indecision as I stand there battling with myself over the right thing to do.
My hesitation gives Daniel enough time to catch up to me, as if he’s really going to be the one to chase after her. As if he’s going to be the hero, the one to ease her suffering. I have half a mind to drag him out of the bar by the scruff of his neck and make it perfectly clear to him that he and Natalie will never be a thing. Never.
I take a step toward the bathroom and his hand hits my arm. “I doubt she really wants to talk to you right now.”
To that, I deliver a poignant “Fuck off” before ignoring him and going after her.
The pub has a shallow hallway that dead-ends with two bathrooms. I knock on the one on the left and a gruff dude shouts back that he’ll be done soon. I knock on the second door and there’s no reply.
“Natalie,” I say, knocking again.
“Give me a second. Please.”
Her voice is right on the other side of the door. She’s leaning against it, not letting me in, and this graffitied bathroom door is the perfect metaphor for our tangled relationship. I know if I could just get past it, unlock it, break it down, shred it to pieces, maybe she and I could stand a chance of finding a peace we could both be happy with, a peace we could share, together.
