“You don’t have to hide from me,” I blurt out before my brain catches up.
He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing with confusion. “What?”
I swallow, instantly regretting my word vomit. “I just mean—” I wave vaguely toward him, my face burning. “You always do that thing. The, uh—backing away thing. You don’t have to.”
He blinks, silence stretching between us. His hand trails along the edge of the bar, thumb brushing the grain of the wood. “It’s not—” he begins, then stops. The words get lost somewhere in his throat.
For a second, I think he might actually begin to open up to me.
He finally speaks, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s not you I’m hiding from.”
I suck in a breath at his honesty.
His eyes stay on the wood beneath his hands. “It’s a reflex. You get used to taking up less space. It’s easier that way.”
Something heavy lodges in my throat. “Easier doesn’t mean better.”
He lets out a slow breath as his shoulders sag. “Maybe not. But it keeps things from hurting as much.”
I lean closer without thinking. The distance between us feels wrong now. “Does it?”
“Not really.”
His words are barely a whisper, but they undo me. Because for the first time, he’s not trying to be unreadable. He’s just… tired. Tired of hiding himself because of the way others look at him.
I want to reach for him, but I don’t, opting to simply rest my hand flat on the bar between us, close enough that if he wanted to, he could bridge the gap.
“I notice when you pull away,” I say quietly. “And I notice when you don’t.”
His gaze flicks to my hand, then to my face. There’s a storm behind his eyes—fear, longing, maybe relief.
He looks at me as if he wants to say something, like he’s struggling with whether he should.
“My bar is the only thing that’s ever felt safe. I built it from nothing to have somewhere to be when everything else stopped feeling like home.”
He stops there, the silence stretching, and I realize that might be the most he’s told anyone in years.
My chest aches. “That’s not nothing,” I whisper.
His lips part, then press together again. “You make it sound simple.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I say. “Life isn’t simple, it’s messy.”
For a long moment, neither of us moves as the clock ticks somewhere behind us.
He’s still tracing the grain of the wood, but his hand drifts closer to mine, hesitating.
Our fingers finally touch; time seems to stand still, the noise of the world fades away, and it feels as if the universe itself is holding its breath, waiting for us to remember we have always been connected.
In that small, fragile moment, I sense him starting to let me in.
It’s closing time,and I’m done editing for now. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I quickly pull it out, flinching at the bright screen.
Brian
*a selfie of him with his friend, Rebecca.*
Unreal. I throw my phone in my purse harder than necessary, scoffing at his stupid message.
