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29
BITTERSWEET SYMPHONY BY THE VERVE
JAY
The week has been unbearably long. Knowing Cat slept in my bed on Sunday night made it nearly impossible not to show up at the train station on Monday. But I couldn’t. She asked me not to say goodbye; she asked me, instead, to walk away. And if I’d shown up, then I risked being forced to say it. A man can only walk away so many times.
I’ve gone in circles over our situation and the roadblocks that keep us apart. In the end, one thing remains clear: I can’t go through with my father’s revenge plan. Not if it means Cat could get hurt in the process. Even peripherally.
Her father and my mother made choices years ago, and we’ve paid for their actions. I lost my mother, and according to Cat, she has no relationship with her father. I have to believe some part of that had to do with his affairs. I refuse to make her pay for her father’s actions any more than she already has.
And I’m done suffering for my mother’s.
But convincing my father that the past should be left there won’t be an easy task. And bringing Cat into my life—and giving him the opportunity to use her to hurt her family—isn’t a risk I’m willing to take.
Which leaves me sitting at the bar, like a coward, watching her sit by herself. I wince at the sheer assortment of food that arrives. What was I thinking? Two of everything? She’s going to be so pissed.
I glance at the text I sent her and wonder if she’ll even reply. She smiles at the waitress and then picks up her phone.
Mine doesn’t ring.
Her eyes light up, and she speaks into the phone briefly. Then she holds the phone in front of her, probably ending the call. Instead of putting the device on the table or back in her purse, she types something, her thumbs moving quickly over the keys.
When my phone buzzes in my hand, I freeze.
Kitten: Thanks. My date and I will enjoy. Have a good day, Mr. Hanson.
She and her date will enjoy it?That’show she’s going to respond? I have half a mind to walk over right now and demand to know who she’s meeting. But then I might miss seeing the fucker show up.
I slap my hand against the bar, forcing myself to stay here, where she can’t easily spot me.
At my outburst, the bartender looks up. “Mr. Hanson, need another drink?”
I run my thumb over my bottom lip as I watch her. “Yes, another iced tea, please.”
What I need is whiskey. Something strong to take the edge off. But I want to be completely present. Alcohol will only blur my feelings and my emotional reaction.
This isn’t her fault. She didn’t do this.
Repeating that over and over doesn’t minimize the desire to throw my glass at the wall, thinking about how someone else will get to admire her curves in that black skirt. Someone else will get to kiss those lips and hold her tight.
I wallow in my anger for a solid ten minutes before a woman approaches her table.
I study them as they talk and eat and laugh, dying to know whether this woman is truly a date or a friend but simultaneously dreading the answer to that question.
“Do you want to order something?” the bartender asks.
Fuck this. Why am I hiding in the corner? If she’s moved on, then we can at least be friends. Anything is better than nothing at this point. It’s only been a week, and not having her in my life period feels exponentially worse than watching her with someone else. I can sit with her and enjoy lunch.
Right, it’s not at all about her date.
“I’m good, thanks. Just put this all on my tab, please.”
The man nods, and I slide my chair back quickly. So quickly that I don’t see the woman passing behind me with the tray.
“Shit!” the woman screams as all the drinks slide off the tray and right into my lap.
“Oh my God. Mr. Hanson, are you okay?” the bartender says, grabbing for a stack of towels behind the bar.
