And for everything else that’s about to come.
In fact, I’m fit to burst just thinking of it all, sitting here in this dive bar, filled with ripe possibility and so much damn purpose.
This is the girl Hollis had loved so passionately, the one he claimed owned his very heart in a way that no one else ever could. And while I may have vacated the premises, temporarily abandoned my stake, that heart is still mine. Further proof that whatever space his wife is holding has been, at the most, merely rented.
I lift my glass, watch my reflection as I take a sip, and smile.
It’s time I wrote that bitch an eviction notice.
• • •
I’m drunk on confidence and wasted on drink.
My hair is something I can’t stop touching, can’t stop smoothing and running my hands over. The warmer tone makes my skin look even more porcelain, my eyes brighter, a more striking shade of blue. Aside from a trim, I kept most of the length, and the curls the stylist ironed into my hair before I left are still holding strong, flowing over my shoulders in ginger tined waves.
Hollis’s coffee shop is directly across the street from the bar, and though it’s well past his morning work session, I stare at it now, a picture of him from earlier sliding into memory, the way his hands flew over his laptop, his forehead creased in thought.
It was his book that brought me here.
I read his novel, devoured his words, and couldn’t get him out of my head after. For days, thoughts of him, of us, of how we used to be, swarmed my mind, giving way to an obsession complete with pounding headaches and a helpless fury that I was unable to control. I was filled with bitterness and rage, though not remorse, for I’d suffered too much to lay waste to regret. I was the victim here and, as a result, felt entirely justified in wallowing in my wounded state of existence. But when everything came to a head, when the only balm that would soothe my flayed soul was Hollis Thatcher and only Hollis Thatcher, I left Minneapolis for Duluth in a desperate state, telling myself that to see him, to simply watch him, would be enough. I ached, inside and out, and I needed to find out what he was like now, after all these years. I wanted to know if the object of my obsession still deserved my attention.
But merely seeing him wasn’t enough.
It’s not enough.
Sitting here now, with my new hair and my old look, I’m formulating a new plan, one that started at the coffee shop this morning and matured while I sat in the chair at the salon this afternoon. Although the execution is still up for debate, just knowing I’m moving forward, towards something, towards him, has me feeling better than I have in years. This venture, unlike the phony business excuse I gave to Nicholas before I left, is going to take finesse, persistence, patience, and…time.
And time, I’ve got. I’m a woman with no real responsibilities and a husband who works so much he’s never home. His indifference and his deep pockets are my saving grace; I’ve earned every penny of what I’m about to use in this mission. This past week has fashioned me into a woman of focus, of stringent determination. A woman who wants change enough to make it happen, regardless of the cost. I’ll be as patient as priest during confession, as chill as a Buddhist monk on a fucking mountaintop at sunrise. From here on out, I’ll bear no doubt, be as smooth as the waters of a lake on a tranquil day and as subtle as a tiger stalking prey on the Serengeti.
The giddiness of possibility spreads throughout my body, flicks up the corners of my mouth so that when I shake my empty glass at the bartender, I do so with a loopy grin.
I’m high right now. So goddamn high on life right now and the entire fucking world is my oyster.
When the bartender sets my drink down in front of me, a sudden presence to my left draws my attention. I turn, loose in my movements, oiled from gin and tipsy with the promise of what lies ahead, and find myself looking straight into a familiar pair of eyes. Kind eyes, so brown they look black, the corners crinkled from a smile that’s equally as friendly. His gaze clings to mine, never wavers, even as he slides a bill across the bar and says, “This one’s on me, Don.”
It’s the man from the coffee shop, the one with the artist’s hands and the sunshine bright stare.
The bartender – Don, apparently – grunts and pockets the cash, and then ambles away before I can argue. All of this is noted peripherally, because my attention is still glued to the man standing next to me, too close to me, who smells deliciously of peppermint and oranges. He’s smooth and carefree, and when he slides onto the barstool next to mine, his smile widens. “You changed your hair.”
Shocked that he noticed, shocked more by this than his sudden appearance, I motion toward him, indicating his outfit, and say, “And you haven’t changed at all.”
He nods and chuckles, rubs the back of his neck as he looks down at his black t-shirt and black jeans, his worn leather boots. “Let’s just say I’m a minimalist. And,” he reaches for his drink, a bottle of some dark local beer I’m not familiar with, “it’s sort of my uniform.”
Smirking, I grab my glass, bring it to my lips. “So, what? Are you, like, a busboy or something?”
My tone is snarky, but he doesn’t appear offended. “Not since I was fifteen and worked at Lou’s Diner over on Fifth.” He chuckles and shrugs, my snobbery rolling right off him. “Actually, I’m a photographer. And as for my, uh, minimalist attire, I guess you could say that the ability to blend into the background has its advantages.”
Well, I can’t exactly argue with that.
Maybe I should pour myself into a black cat suit so I can slip unseen into Hollis’s life, slippery as a shadow, and watch him as he goes about his day.
“So you’ve been stalking me?” I ask, as if I have the nerve to find stalking offensive.
“I happen to live in the neighborhood, so I wouldn’t call occasionally running into you stalking.” He pretends to be offended, but then smirks and lowers his voice. “Technically.”
I arch a brow. “Technically?”
“Well,” he drawls, “you’re kind of hard miss.”
My cheeks heat. He finds me attractive; it’s pretty damn obvious. Though, for the sake of appearing modest, I feign innocence, peppering it with the tiniest hint of indignation. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs and takes a pull of his beer before answering. “Exactly what you think it means.”
He caught me.
“I’m Ford.” He holds out his hand, formal as all get out, and I take it, feel a tingle of electricity shoot up into my arm as he presses his palm to mine.
“Becca,” I reply, giving him the name I haven’t gone by since I was twenty-two.
“Becca.” My name on his lips sounds like a foreign word, as if he’s talking in some exotic language I’ve never heard before. His eyes roam my face for a beat, and I can feel his gaze as it drags over my brow, my cheeks, my lips. I can’t remember the last time someone regarded me so thoroughly, so deeply, and a velvety sort of buzz blooms in my chest, the same kind I get after finishing a glass of dark red wine. The heat burns from the inside out, skimming along my skin and raising goosebumps.
I avert my eyes, rub my thumb along the rim of my glass, and try to think of what to say next. Flirting isn’t exactly my thing; I’ve been coupled in some form or other since my junior year of high school. I’ve never had to throw out quick-witted banter in order to pick up a guy at a party or a club. Granted, I did meet Nicholas when I was working at a bar, but it was in a ritzy hotel where excessive mingling between the staff and the guests was discouraged. Plus, I never had to woo Nicholas with words; he’s always been more interested in my looks than what I have to say.