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One is willowy with a messy dark bob, dressed in dungarees, the other is curvy and confident, her hourglass figure wrapped in a flower-patterned sundress.
“Mac is just… everything,” the dungarees girl says to her friend as the line shuffles along. She sighs happily, slicking on a deep red lipstick.
“I know what you mean,” says the sundress. “I thought Dalton and I wouldneverhappen, but here we are. I keep pinching myself, because there’s no way life can be this good.”
Ugh.
Kill. Me. Now.
Look, I’m not an ogre. I don’t hate other people’s happiness, and usually I love eavesdropping on bathroom gossip. But the joy radiating off these two lovebirds is a cruel mockery—like they’re both pressing hard on my Andre-shaped bruise. I lean back against the tiled wall, letting my eyes drop closed.
Suddenly, I am so, so tired. The sadness is heavy, and my bones ache with it.
Andre.
Could I ever truly let him go? Could I ever really move on?
Even when he feels so essential to me, like water and air? Even when the only times I feel at home in my body are when his eyes are on me?
Tears brim behind my eyelids, and as the line moves, the girl behind me clears her throat. Eyes still closed, I slide a foot along the wall, hair snagging in the tile grouting. This isn’t what I imagined my life would be like.
So: ten minutes. That’s my lot. Ten more minutes of tragic self pity, then I’m going back out there to buy my brother some obscure, disgusting drink, damn it. We’ll make memories before he goes away tomorrow.
And if Andre is still here, I won’t stare at him. I won’t linger nearby, hoping and wishing that he’d single me out to chat. I won’t chew my own tongue off with jealousy every time someone checks out the chef’s sculpted arms.
When I go back out there, Andre Silva will be my neighbor. Nothing more.
* * *
It feels weird, when I finally emerge from the bathroom, that the bar is exactly as I left it. The crowd is still loud, the music hums from the speakers, and the air is hot and humid. Dropped beer mats litter the floor.
Over the last twenty minutes, I’ve had an inner earthquake. My whole world has shattered, then been hastily glued back together. Meanwhile, The Buccaneer and its patrons are completely unchanged.
Rude.
Seems like the least the universe could do is throw out a mini tornado or something. A tiny storm to represent my turmoil. Nothing dangerous, you know, with zero property damage, but… a mess. A big ol’ mess. Seems only fair.
“Let’s read another one,” Stephen says as I return to the bar, forcing myself not to stare at my crush where he leans nearby. But it’s no use: even out of the corner of my eye, Andre is magnificent. His bicep bulges as he lifts his glass; his strong throat works as he swallows. Those worn jeans cling to his thighs, and even leaning, he’s so tall and broad. Gah.
“Dear Hattie,” Stephen begins, his voice booming into the crowd. I turn to ice, frost creeping through my veins, because my older brother is holding my phone aloft, reading from the lit up screen. Is this a nightmare? Am I dreaming?
“What’s this?” I dare a glance at Andre, but he looks relaxed as he shrugs. He wouldn’t be so casual if he’d heard my letter, would he?
“Some advice column. You missed a few already. There was one letter from a woman who wanted a commitment ceremony with her parrot.”
“Huh.”
Was the parrot lady above or below my letter? Did Stephen scan over mine already and declare it too boring?
Oh my god. I need to pee again. I need to fling myself into the sea.
“We don’t need to keep reading,” I say, aiming for light and breezy, but when I reach for my phone, Stephen holds it up high. Damn tall people! I kick at his shins but miss.
“I’m sure you could paper the walls with letters like mine,” my brother reads, a sly smile curving his mouth, “but here goes: I’m in love with my neighbor.”
The breath leaves my body, and I stagger to the side. A high pitched whining sound fills my ears.
No.
