The Night Before(9)

I feel that thing in my stomach. It’s not quite anxiety. Not quite nervousness. It is distinct, a feeling specific to this set of circumstances—a first date after a bad breakup. It’s hope, but it’s so fragile. Hope on its deathbed. People gathered around it, saying prayers. A priest standing over it, reading last rites. Part of me has already grieved it. Part of me can’t until it’s totally dead, maybe even until it’s been buried six feet under.

I need a drink ASAP.

Hand on the handle, door open. Grab purse, phone, keys. Close the door. Lock the car. It’s 7:38.

I walk like I could give a shit about anything, across the street, down the block. My heart is beating faster and it’s pissing me off. I breathe slower but it makes it worse. I can feel my cheeks getting redder than they already were.

A small group of people stands outside, smoking and laughing. They’ve clearly enjoyed happy hour drink prices. I walk around them and find the door, pull the handle. Step inside.

The bar is dark. Dimly lit. Wood paneling. There are tables in the back and loud music playing in the front, which is packed with people of all ages—except middle. Middle-aged people are home with their kids. It’s Thursday night, after all.

I scan the crowd. Two naughty girls to my right, drunk and slutty. Talking to three young executives. Douchebags. I wonder how that math is going to work out. To my left are five colleagues from a medical office. They’re still wearing their cotton-candy shirts and badges. Dead center is the bar, lined with an assortment of men and women. No one is alone. Shit. Did he leave? Did he blow me off? No, no, no! The thought rips through me and I realize in an instant how vulnerable I am tonight.

It doesn’t sit well, being vulnerable. It makes me feel like a wild animal trapped in a corner. Nothing left to do but fight its way out. It brings back memories of things I don’t want to remember. So many mistakes. So many regrets. They come in flashes, sweeping in like Sarin gas, devastating every nerve in my body. Paralyzing me with self-hatred.

I realize now that I have started to believe in Jonathan Fields when he is nothing more than a name and a voice and a story on a page. I have let it all swirl around in my head and become a real person, like a kid with an imaginary friend. Insanity. Desperation. I’ve done it again. I haven’t followed the instructions. This does not bode well.

I feel a hand on my shoulder and I turn.

“Laura?” he says. There he is … Jonathan Fields, saving me from myself. Saving himself from me, though he doesn’t know it.

He’s beautiful. I almost gasp, that’s how beautiful he is. And I haven’t even had a drink.

Blue eyes. Dark hair. Just like his pictures. Only his face has structure that the pictures didn’t capture—the way his cheekbones frame his perfect nose. The way his smile pulls up higher on one side, more endearing than smug. And his body—that slender, fit body—it moves with masculine grace.

All of this rushes in and sweeps me away.

“Yeah. Jonathan?” I’m so perfectly collected right now. I don’t know how, because the emotional 180 has nearly killed me. I want to crawl under the covers in Rosie’s attic and disappear from the world.

His eyes scan me up and down. It’s a little odd, to be honest, but if he’s feeling any bit of what I’m feeling, nothing would be odd. I am blinded by a surge of adrenaline. I have no sense of myself.

Then he speaks.

“Sorry, it’s just … well, you’re really beautiful.”

I let his words enter my brain for processing. I get my shit together. Clear the Sarin from my bloodstream. The adrenaline clears as well, and the words get through. They sound sincere. Check. And they explain his roving eyes. Check. All good.

I smile. I have to force myself. Voices echo in the distance. My sister’s. The ghosts of my past. They tell me I shouldn’t be here.

Go home. Get under the covers.

He looks around. His eyes pause on the back room with the tables. He loses his smile, but only for a second.

“Listen,” he says. “This place is kind of crowded. I’d really like to go somewhere quiet where we can talk and get to know each other.”

He’s not wrong. It’s loud and smells like stale beer. People are laughing too hard because they’re drunk at seven forty-five on a Thursday. And he wants to talk. That’s a good sign. I walk back from the ledge of an emotional inferno.

“Sure,” I say. I smile again.

He touches my arm and leads me in front of him toward the door. As we’re walking out, past the sluts and douchebags and cotton candy uniforms, I think I hear someone call his name. I try to look back where the tables are, where the voice came from, but he moves past me and waves me on to follow. When he gets to the door, he opens it and ushers me outside. Then to the corner of Richmond and Maple. He doesn’t stop walking until we’re in the parking lot of a CVS.

I follow, not asking where we’re going.

I don’t know why.

Well, that’s not really true.

He turns to face me, a little winded. He looks over my shoulder, then back at me with a smile.

“Sorry about that. I just couldn’t hear myself think in there. It’s been one of those days.”

I know exactly what to say.

“It’s fine. I’ve had some of those myself. What do you want to do?” I’m so understanding. It’s all about you, Jonathan Fields.