The bar is alive the way it always is on a Friday; boots scuffing across the worn floorboards, laughter crashing over the jukebox’s low thrum, glasses clinking.
My brothers are both home tonight, tucked away in their warm houses with their wives and quiet routines, while I’m here behind the scarred oak bar.
I’ve been pouring drinks on autopilot for hours, nodding to regulars, flashing the half-smile they expect, pretending the last couple of months haven’t carved a hollow space in my heart.
Two months since I last saw Layla.
Two months without hearing her sweet voice around this bar. Two months without feeling her soft hands wrapped around mine or the sweet taste of her.
I’ve checked my phone so many times that the screen should be worn thin. I’ve reread her messages until they no longer made sense. I’ve told myself she’s fine, that she’s figuring things out, and that she’s still wearing his ring.
I knew what I was getting myself into, but it still doesn’tstop the ache.
The front door swings open again.
I don’t look up immediately as another group of guys yell for another round of Fireball, but the air shifts.
A prickle runs down the back of my neck.
Adjusting my glasses, I quickly glance over at the wooden doors, and my heart stops.
Layla stands just inside the entrance.
She’s wearing the pastel yellow dress I’ve always loved, the one that clings to her hips and ends mid-thigh.
Tonight, it looks off because it’s wrinkled across her waist and the hem is slightly crooked.
Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, with strands falling loose around her face, making her look more exhausted than effortless.
My gaze travels along her delicate face and nose, and I notice that concealer sits heavily along the curve of her throat, but it can’t quite hide the faint purple bloom beneath.
She wraps her arms tightly around her middle, and her shoulders curve inward as if she’s trying to disappear into herself.
Hesteps in right behind her.
His hand clamps around her upper arm, as his fingers dig in hard enough to turn her skin white under the pressure. He steers her forward through the crowd, tugging her along.
His eyes sweep the room and lock onto mine almost instantly.
A cocky smirk flashes across his lips before he tightens his grip and pulls her closer to his side, briefly kissing her on the lips, making me wince.
She stumbles half a step, but she doesn’t try to pull away, and it kills me watching her.
Red-hot boiling anger simmers beneath my skin, my fists clenched under the bartop.
They weave through the tables and finally reach the bar, as she keeps her gaze fixed on the floorboards the whole way.
This cocky bastard doesn’t, as he watches me while they inch closer and closer to the bar.
Once he reaches the oak top, he taps his fingers on the scarred wood, leaning in, crowding my space.
Layla stands half a step behind him, her arms still locked around herself.
I set the bottle I was holding down with careful precision.
He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Don’t fucking look at her, you freak. Whiskey neat. Now.”
Fuck him. My eyes stay on her, watching her subtle movements.
