“Maybe next time you’ll learn,” I muttered.
But the truth was, I wouldn’t. Not when it came to her.
Because no matter how many times Melanie ghosted me, one look from her, one laugh, one sarcastic comment, one tiny smirk that said she was fighting not to smile, always pulled me right back in.
I could still see her in my head, barefoot in her kitchen, hair a mess, wearing my shirt and pretending it wasn’t on purpose.The way she’d smiled up at me when she’d saidI’ll be there this weekend.
I’d believed her.
That was on me.
I picked up another chair, flipped it onto a table, and whistled along with the song, my voice cracking on the high notes.
I’ll have a blue, blue, blue, blue Christmas…
“Guess so,” I said, shaking my head.
The door to the kitchen swung slightly in the draft, creaking just enough to sound like footsteps. For half a second, my heart jumped with ridiculous hope flashing through me. Maybe she’d surprise me after all.
But when the door stayed still, the hope fizzled out just as quick.
“Pathetic,” I told myself. “You’ve officially lost it.”
The jukebox clicked as the song ended, rolling into another slow one, something about being home for Christmas. I turned the volume down a notch, suddenly too aware of how empty the place felt.
I finished the rest of my closing routine on autopilot, counting the till, wiping down the counter, and straightening the stools. My hands moved through it automatically, but my mind was still stuck on that phone call.
The way her voice had sounded…nervous, hesitant.
The way I’d wanted so badly to believe her, even when everything in me screamed not to.
I’d told her I wasn’t mad, but maybe I was. Not at her exactly—at myself. For letting the same pattern hurt in new ways. For being the guy who always waited.
Still, even through the frustration, I couldn’t shake the worry. She’d sounded off. Frazzled. And I’d brushed it off like it was just another excuse. What if it wasn’t?
“Don’t do that,” I muttered. “Don’t start hoping again.”
But hope was the worst habit I had.
I walked to the window and looked out at Main Street. Snow was falling now with slow, steady flakes swirling under the glow of the streetlights. Across the way, the Christmas decorations Lydia had bullied the town into putting up were still twinkling: wreaths on lampposts, garland over shop doors, a giant red bow on the bakery’s sign.
The world looked perfect. Picture-postcard perfect.
And somehow, I’d never felt lonelier.
I rubbed the back of my neck, exhaled, and whispered to the empty room, “Guess it’s just you and me again, Stag.”
The jukebox clicked again, cycling to another Elvis tune, one even sadder than the last.
I laughed bitterly. “Oh, come on, man. Twist the knife, why don’t you.”
I didn’t turn it off.
Instead, I leaned against the bar, listening as the voice crooned about missing someone who wasn’t coming home.
Outside, a truck rumbled past, the tires crunching against the snow. A couple walked by, bundled together, their laughtermuffled through the glass. The sight tugged at something small and quiet inside me.
I’d always told myself I didn’t need that—didn’t need anyone. The bar was my life, Reckless River my home. But lately, it didn’t feel like enough.
