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At her bemused nod, I stumble to the side and slump against the wall, crumpling like paper as I fall to the floor. I'm only vaguely aware of people around me looking in my direction, whispering, taking pictures, even saying my name, but all I can think about is how I'm supposed to be going home today to the man who betrayed me so cataclysmically.
How can I go back there after what he's done?
I can't.
It's as devastatingly simple as that.
There is nothing left for me in Tupelo now.
So, I tear up my ticket and board a last-minute flight to Los Angeles instead.
My fourth glassof whiskey slams down on the bar top in front of me, the final drops of gold liquid burning my throat like molten lava. But it's not enough to distract from the pain in my heart that's been threatening to cripple me since last Friday when I returned from the airport alone.
It's been five days since Thea failed to come home to me. Five days of unanswered calls, unreturned voicemails and text messages left on read.
She won't talk to me.
Not for me to tell her that I had nothing to do with the leaking of that photograph. Not to let me know that she's doing okay. Not even to tell me to go fuck myself.
It's like I don't exist to her anymore.
And if it's possible, her leaving hurts even more now than it did when she left me six years ago.
Because I thought I'd proven to her that she was safe with me. I thought I'd loved her enough for her to finally realize that I have never—and would never—do anything to intentionally hurt her. I thought she knew that I would give up everything I've ever known to be with her if that's what she needed. And I thought she believed me when I told her that I loved her.
Most of all, I thought she knew my heart well enough to know that I would never betray her so much as to leak a photograph she'd trusted me to take during an intimate moment we'd shared together.
It's a sick sort of irony, reliving the heartbreak I barely survived all those years ago. It's nostalgia of the worst strain. A devastating kind of déjà vu.
It's what's led me to here, slumped over my hands on the bar top of The Farrow Tap, fingers wrapped around an empty tumbler. I'd already downed three bottles of Bud Light before I realized beer wasn't going to cut it and I hit the Jack instead.
“Another,” I slur, clicking my fingers like a prize asshole at the blur of a waitress shining glasses not too far away.
A soft and familiar voice replies, “Sorry, Cole, but I'm cutting you off.”
Shaking my heavy head, I squint up at the blonde girl who's apparently refusing to serve me more of the good stuff. “What?”
“I'm not too sure you'd manage to stay awake for another drink.” She smiles and though I can barely see it, I know it's one of sweetness rather than condescension.
“Oh, it's you.” I smack my forehead with my palm as I finally place her in my mind. “Aren’t you too young to be servin’ drinks anyway, Luella, let alone cuttin’ off honest paying customers?”
My sister's best friend laughs, tossing a towel over her shoulder and leaning her elbows on the bar to watch me with an expression I've seen on too many people's faces over the last few days. “It's my daddy's bar and the cops in this town don't care much that I'm underage, so long as I'm pouring them drinks and serving them food.” She nods her head in the direction of a cop still in uniform who's got a beer in one hand and a burger in the other. “See?”
“Fair enough.” I shrug, hunching in my seat like I'm collapsing in on myself. It's only partly due to the alcohol.
Luella tilts her head to one side and eyes me with sympathy. “There anyone I can call for you?”
“Nah, I can walk.”
She raises her eyebrows skeptically but doesn't argue. “Okay.”
“Air might help sober me up or something,” I say, though I hope it doesn't. Sober Cole is even sadder than drunk Cole.
“Sure.”
Climbing off my stool, I'm forced to grip tight onto the bar to keep me upright, the world spinning and bleary.
“You sure you're gonna be okay?”
