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Would I?
Would I do the same thing as Helen?
Leave the man I love when he needs me the most.
Maybe I am young and I am naive but I don’t think I could do that. I don’t think I could leave the man I loved. Not for anything. Not for my town. Not for my parents. Not for the one thing I’ve always loved: art.
If I loved a man, I would choose him over everything.
I would choose him over myself.
I’m not sure what that makes me. Definitely not above anyone else from my town or otherwise. It probably makes me a fool. Maybe even pathetic, because you can’t live your life based on your heart.
But it’s okay.
I’ll be a fool and I’ll be pathetic but I don’t think I could ever leave the man I loved.
“Besides, all of this is moot anyway,” she says after a few moments.
“Why?”
“Because it’s over.” Then, “Not that it ever began, but still.”
I swallow, my heart thudding in my chest, louder and hungrier than before.
“Between you and… Conrad.”
I let his name slip. Deliberately.
To humanize him. To make him even more real in her eyes.
Just so she would stop plunging the knife in his heart. In my heart.
“Yes,” she says in a cutting voice. “Apparently, he’s like you. Idealistic and foolish. So no matter how many times I call him or text him or beg him to be with me, he won’t. And I know he wants to. I can see that he still has feelings for me. It’s obvious, but still this time around, he’s choosing his useless principles over me. Never me.”
I knew it.
I knew it.
I knew he wouldn’t do it. I knew that he would never do something like this.
And God, I’m so relieved. I’m so fucking glad that he made the right choice that it takes me a second to realize something.
Something awful that makes me bite my lip and fist my hands really hard.
“So he’s…” I whisper, “still alone?”
Because if he chose his principles over the woman he loves, then he’s still alone, isn’t he?
As alone as he was at that wedding party.
As alone as he must’ve been when they broke up years ago.
As alone as… ever.
Helen scoffs. “Conrad Thorne is alone because that’s his own choice. I’ve given him chances over chances. You can’t help someone if they don’t want to be helped. So I don’t think you need to worry about him. He can handle himself.”
At St. Mary’s, we have a ritual.
Every Friday, at midnight, my girls — Poe, Salem and Callie — and I sneak out of the dorms and go to this bar, Ballad of the Bards, in Bardstown. To hang out, dance and just generally have fun.
Well, not Callie anymore because she moved out a few weeks ago.
And also recently, not me either.
I haven’t been to the bar in a few weeks. Four to be exact — well more than that, almost six weeks, if you count the Christmas and New Year’s break, but still.
Because for the last however many weeks my outing privileges have been suspended.
Which means I couldn’t go off campus.
Not that sneaking out in the middle of the night is a St. Mary’s sanctioned outing, or that anyone would’ve known if I had chosen to go out.
But still I chose to remain in my room.
Because he wanted me to.
He was the one who took my privileges away and I didn’t want to disobey him.
I know it’s kind of silly but I haven’t been able to bring myself to go, much to both Salem’s and Poe’s chagrin. But that self-imposed restriction lifts tonight because the winter break is over and I officially have my privileges back.
And so the first destination is Bardstown.
His town.
I’ve been here before, of course. To this bar, obviously, along with various stores and restaurants with Callie and my other girls over the past year, but I never knew that I was in his town.
Like he was in mine back then. The night I met him.
So this is special.
Tonight is special.
“I think I’ll dance.”
I’ve shocked my friends with my declaration.
Even though this is a dance bar — a very unusual kind because instead of dance music, they play music with violins and bass and lyrics that speak of lost and tragic love, hence the name ‘Ballad’ of the Bards — I don’t usually dance. I usually bring my sketchpad, sit in a corner and draw while Salem and Callie, both dancers, enjoy the music and Poe, strictly not a dancer because her boobs hit her face every time she does, flirts with guys and tries to sneak drinks past the bartender.
Salem blinks at me. “You’ll dance?”
I nod, watching the crowd slowly swaying on the dance floor and feeling the urge to do the same myself. “Yup.”
“But you never dance.” That’s Poe.
I shrug “I know. But I want to.”
