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Turning off the ignition outside Syd’s, he could already taste the whiskey. And as he took his first steps toward the bar, he could already feel the oblivion set in.
However, as he reached for the door, he stopped.
A year ago, he’d been labeled as Hollywood’s latest disaster. He was a fuckup, a drunk, a playboy. He’d become more famous for his offscreen shenanigans than his on-screen work, and if he stepped into the bar, he could slide right back into that life. He stomped away from the door.
Yet with the picture of Bronte walking away from him burned in his brain, he didn’t care about what everyone thought of him. What was the point of being a better person if he didn’t have her? He pivoted back, the blinking neon sign in the window beckoning him inside.
Back when his parents disowned him and Chris was faced with the prospect of turning his back on his career or moving forward without his family, Wes told him, “It’s okay to look back to your past, but you don’t have to stare.” Chris whirled away from the OPEN sign to peer into one of the dirty windows, all the people lined up at the bar.
Well, he was staring at his past now, and it didn’t seem so bad. Not when his other option was living with this goddamn wound in his chest. He moved back to the door, once again stopping abruptly.
He yanked at his hair, yelling incoherently into the night. He probably looked wild and irrational, but he didn’t care. He felt that way, ready to burst out of his skin. He punched and kicked at the air until he was flushed and out of breath then plopped down on a parking block, his head hanging between his knees.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, memorizing the pores in the macadam, although it was long enough for the door to bang open behind him. A guy marched out, burping the alphabet to his own delight, then George came stumbling out. He was a regular, like Chris used to be. The guy looked terrible, even worse than Chris remembered, and he was suddenly glad the neon sign shut off moments later.
The weekend hadn’t gone how he would have liked, but he never would’ve guessed it’d end up with Bronte in the airport, him on the ground outside a bar, and their future together completely obliterated.
He waited until the lights in the parking lot went out, and then another hour as he watched the traffic slow down until the street was silent. Then, finally, he got back in his car.
The temperature had dropped with a cold wind blowing, but by the time he got home, he couldn’t stand the thought of sleeping in the bed Bronte had been in mere hours ago, so he went out to the deck, where Taco curled up at his feet on one of the lounge chairs. At least while Chris was awake, he could control his thoughts. His dreams, on the other hand…he wouldn’t risk seeing her there.
