“But just drinks at the bar,” I warn, wagging my finger at her before she gets too excited.
“Just drinks, I promise,” she agrees while making a cross-my-heart sign.
I chuckle at her excitement, and she laughs with me. Small seeds of unease slide into my stomach at the thought of meeting someone who isn’t Kane for drinks, but it’s harmless,right?
“Okay, now take some of my socks and go to work! Bring that leather mini skirt and tights with you to change into before The Grunge. You’ll make every man’s pants a little too tight once they see you,” she jokes, wagging her eyebrows at me.
I laugh. “Ew, you pervert. Okay, I’m going. I’ll see you tonight,” I respond, grabbing the clothes and socks. With a wave, I run out the door to Second Chances.
Changingin the staff bathroom should be an Olympic sport for me at this point. I take myself in and am amazed at the way I’m able to make myself look this good in such a small space. Except the fluorescent lights are harsh on my skin, highlighting the dark circles under my eyes that even my highest-coverage concealer cannot seem to cover.
I slip into my leather mini skirt and admire how it grips my ass and immediately makes me feel more confident with it on my body. Morgan and I found it last year while shopping in Aspen while her family went skiing. I put it on and completely fell in love with it. Of course, I couldn’t afford a thing in that store, so Morgan secretly took a picture after I refused to let her buy it for me, and somehow Kane had it waiting for me back home by the time we got back.
I finish the look with my signature ripped fishnets and my Doc Martens, which pull the look together with a low-cut maroon crop top. The weather is finally hot enough at night to ditch the long sleeves. My lips are wine red, and with one last swipe of gloss, I feel much better. Not that I’m really trying to impress the guys Morgan has us meeting, but it feels nice to get dressed up and leave the house.
I refuse to tell Morgan that.
The uneasy feeling from this morning is back in full force, turning my stomach into a pile of knots as I close up and get the rest of my stuff from the staff back room. My stomach rolls as I think of any guy who isn’t Kane sittingacross from me. What will we even talk about? Am I supposed to ask his favorite color?
What if he thinks this is a date?
I’m aware that I’m spiraling, but as I get closer to The Grunge, traffic after seven is a mere whisper compared to what it was earlier in the afternoon. I try to play some of my favorite songs to psych myself up for this, but even my kick-ass girl-power songs can’t seem to shake the unease I’m carrying. It feels wrong. I know I agreed I would go out and experience things, but what if this is the rest of my life—going on date after date, searching for someone who makes me feel even a sliver of what Kane does?
He stole my heart when I was young, and I have yet to get it back. It feels as if I walk around with half a heart most days, that missing spot impossibly large.
I try to banish these feelings from my brain, chalking it up to nerves at meeting new people. My brain short-circuits whenever someone new is around and I have to make small talk. My skin begins to itch, and I tend to overshare. After every encounter, I go through the entire conversation in my head, imagining the worst—they must think I’m annoying, or they hate me. What if I talked about myself too much? It’s a self-deprecating spiral that unravels inside me long after the encounter ends.
I pull into the parking lot way too soon. The bar appears crowded for a Monday night, and I shift my car into park. I take a few deep breaths to try to force this foreboding feeling out of my chest. The night is still and humid, the birds at the nearby park chirping, with numerous sounds coming from the bar as the door opens and some patrons exit. They hold the door for me, and I whisper a quickthanks.
The neon lights shine bright on the walls, and the musicis some sort of pop-punk track my brain tries to focus on as I search for Morgan. She texted me not that long ago that they were here and getting a table. I glance around for that blonde hair when I finally spot her facing me in the back with two heads sitting across from her—one with slightly longer hair pulled into a man bun next to a taller man with shorter black hair. My heart jolts for a moment, thinking it could be Kane, until he turns and I’m able to take in his profile.
Definitely not Kane.
He’s cute in a boyish way, with an average-sized nose and lips that lean on the smaller side. He sports no scruff on his face and no visible tattoos. I expect my heart to calm down, but it beats harder the closer I get. The sounds in the bar send my already overwhelmed system into overdrive until Morgan stands up and gives me a hug.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you,” she whispers into my hair and smooths a hand down my back, sensing the unease running through me.
“Guys, this is Avery, my bestie I’ve been telling you about. Avery, this is John.” She gestures to the man with a man bun and an impressive beard. He has Clark Kent glasses and perfectly straight teeth. I wish I could say he’s not Morgan’s type, but she’s never had one. She always says she enjoys the male species in all forms, whereas my taste has always firmly beenKane.
I’d never given much thought to boys before Kane. Sure, I had some crushes the way young kids do before they fully meet the boy and realize how gross and immature they are, but once Kane walked into Cherry Hill High, I realized my type was tall, stacked, dark-haired, and blessed with beautiful hazel eyes.
“And that’s Jordan,” she finishes as she gestures to theother guy at the table and sits down. I smile and give a tiny wave to the boys before sitting down across from Jordan.
He is cuter up close—next-door look to him. He appears to work a blue-collar job, judging by his callused hands, and I can appreciate a man who works with his hands. There is something so inherently male about watching them build something with their bare hands.
There’s a Coke and vodka sitting in front of me with a slice of lemon on the rim, and my heart trips as I glance at the bar to make sure Kane isn’t here. When my quick search comes up fruitless, I turn back to Jordan and smile again, hoping to defuse some of the awkward tension I can feel rising.
“Hey, Avery, you were the drag-along too, huh?” he muses on a laugh, flashing me a crooked smile that is oddly charming.
“Yes,” I huff a laugh. “Does he do it a lot?” I ask while taking a sip of the drink and groaning as the perfect ratio hits my tongue. I love the way the lemon breaks up the bite of alcohol and the sugar in the Coke gives me a buzz.
“Uh…I feel like if I say yes, I’m calling him a player, but if I say no, maybe that makes me lame,” he teases.
“No wrong answers here. Morgan is for sure a player, and she drags me to things all the time,” I reply, and he laughs at me. I watch his eyes track down to my very generous cleavage in this top before flicking back up to me. His ears redden at the tips when he sees me catch him, and I smirk.
The two next to us have not stopped talking since I sat down. Morgan pats my leg and smiles at me every now and then to check on me. That’s one of the reasons I always agree to be Morgan’s plus-one. She constantly checks on me,and I know if she noticed I was uncomfortable, she would leave, no excuses or explanations.
“So, Avery, what do you do?” Jordan inquires as he takes a drink from the darker-looking beer that has been in front of him since I walked up.
