Does he want to see me? Maybe he wants to talk...
Oh, you know, the usual. At the bar, making lists in a new notebook :)
I pierce my bottom lip with my teeth. We're chatting like we used to. Easily, about mundane things. Why?
That's it. I'm going to ask him to meet tonight, maybe at that wine bar down the street, to clear the air.
I tap on the screen.
Remy, I'd like...
There's a banging on the bar door. It's so loud and insistent that I'm startled, and my thumb slips. The three-word text has been sent. Ugh. There's more banging at the door.
Oh! Maybe it's the air guy I'd left the message for. That was quick. I'll finish the text to Remy after I let the guy in. Setting the phone down, I leap off the barstool and run to the door.
I push it open. Because the Florida sun is so bright, white even, I don't instantly recognize the man standing on the other side of the door.
But when he roughly pushes past me and into the bar, my stomach tightens with a sickly, familiar feeling.
It's Brent.
TWENTY-ONE
Leilani
I try to dart out the door, but Brent steps in front of me, blocking my path with the easy weight of a man who's used to standing wherever he likes.
"Hi, sweetheart," he says, voice silky.
A familiar nausea fills my body, making my stomach lurch and my heart rate kick up. The smell of his expensive lemon verbena cologne hits me before anything else, and the room shrinks around it.
He's the same demented, arrogant J. Crew model-wannabe that he always was: khaki shorts, perfect polo, casually mussed hair, a watch that costs more than a used car. The same too-charming smile. The same eyes that miss nothing and forgive less. I hate him with every cell in my body, with every invisible molecule of my soul.
"Get out," I manage. "I'm calling the cops."
"Calling the cops? On me?" He laughs, like I've made a joke. He nudges the door shut behind him with his heel and walks past me into the bar. He doesn't touch me. He never had to touch me. That was always his trick. "I just want to talk, Leilani. Why would I do anything that would make you call the cops?"
He's making it sound reasonable. Of course he does. That’s how he operates.
I stand frozen near the door, watching him circle my bar like he's already considering his options. He runs a finger along the edge of the counter, the way a man inspects a thing before buying it.
"Mermosa," he says. "Cute name. You always did like the mermaid thing."
My phone pings from its place on the bar. Probably Remy. My throat closes at the thought of him, at the kindness in him, how he never once made me feel small.
"I happened to be over this way for a banking conference this weekend. Saw the article in the paper. Imagine my surprise when I saw my girlfriend, the one who left without a word, suddenly opening a business." He turns to face me, all warmth. "A whole business. With the backing of the community and everything. You must be so proud."
The way he saysproudmakes it sound like the thing a child would feel.
"I want you to leave," I say. My voice is smaller than I meant it to be.
"In a minute. I just want to chat. Sit down."
I don't sit down. I don't move. My mind is doing the thing it always did with him: running ahead, trying to figure out what he wants, what he'll do if I refuse, what version of me will get him out of the room fastest.
"How did you get the money, Leilani?" His voice has softened, the way it always did right before it sharpened. "For all of this. You don't have that kind of money. Did some friend put it up for you? A man? Because we both know you couldn't have done this alone. Or did you do something illegal at your last job, hmm?"
There it is. The old, sick swoop in my stomach. Because part of me still believes him. Part of me has always believed him. He's been living rent-free in my head for years, telling me I couldn't run a bath, much less a business.
