Page 12 of Tell Me Again

That’s somehow too many things to think about all at once, at least given how my mind is not quite working right now, and my eyes dart from Coop to the bartender and then back to the pool table.

“Uh...” A drink. Right. What do I want? And Coop’s paying? No, that doesn’t sound right. I shake my head and pull out my wallet, shooting Coop a grin. “I got this. It was my idea after all.” Sort of, I mean. It was my suggestion that we hang out, and I’d fully expected a clear “Fuck, no.” But he’d said yes. For whatever reason.

Coop’s expression tightens a little, but then he nods, and I hand Sarge my credit card.

“Um, just a Coke for me. Thanks,” I say, to which Sarge gives me a look.

It’s that look. I know it all too well, even though I don’t frequent bars. I’d gotten it all the time hanging out with friends in college. Even when I’d try to play the “designated driver” card. I’d even gotten it just last night, in fact, when everyone at dinner had been drinking wine and I’d just had tea. Brenna’s parents are great; they just don’t know how growing up with a raging alcoholic for a father made me vow to never ever have even a drop of the stuff.

Sarge frowns again and almost maybe rolls his eyes a bit. But then he nods, puts my card somewhere under the counter, and starts to get my drink.

I can feel Coop standing next to me. I can tell he’s watching me, and I sort of don’t even want to risk looking at him right now. I don’t want to see that same skeptical, slightly judgmental expression in his eyes as well. For some reason, I think it would feel different coming from him. And, I mean, I get it. Who comes to a bar with no intention of drinking? He’s the reason I’m here, though, and so I turn toward him anyway, preparing myself for the worst.

But that’s not what I get.

He is watching me carefully, but there’s a gentleness in his eyes. And it’s filled with understanding and acceptance. Because god, if anyone would understand, it would be him. Unlike Sarge and unlike Brenna’s parents, Coop knows. Even more than Brenna, Coop knows. He lived through it with me, after all. And he was there for me. A rock—solid and unwavering—helping me get through countless days and nights when I’d been scared shitless of my own father.

The look in his eyes disappears quickly, although I’m sure I didn’t imagine it, and he hooks a thumb back toward the pool table as Sarge sets my Coke on the counter.

“Wanna play? Just like old times?”

He seems to attempt a smile, but it still has that same wariness to it—that wariness that’s all my doing. My stomach reminds me to be nauseous, knotting itself up again. God, the biggest apology in the world won’t be enough to fix what I did. And somehow, I have to make this however-long-we-have-here count for something.

I grab my drink and grin at him. “So I can beat your ass just like I always used to?”

Oh, god. That got me something. A twinkle in his eye and something more to his smile. My chest feels tight, and there’s an odd heat in my cheeks. My heart feels like it might burst right out of my chest.

“I think you might find my pool game has improved a lot in the last ten years,” he says, still grinning.

I force a laugh. “Mine really . . . hasn’t.”

“No?”

We start back toward the pool table, Coop grabbing his coat off one of the other barstools on the way. It is warm in here. I mean, I’m warm at least. Very warm. I shrug off my coat as we walk, careful to not spill my drink.

“Nah. Dad got rid of the pool table when we moved. And I haven’t really played since...”

I trail off. Why the hell had I mentioned my dad? I don’t even like to talk about my dad. And I sure as hell expect Coop doesn’t want to hear about my dad. It was stupid, and I wish I could just take it back and make some other comment instead. But I can’t.

Just ahead of me, Coop stops and sets his beer and coat down on a small table next to the rack where the cues sit. There’s tension in his shoulders now. He glances up, and his eyes dart back toward Sarge very briefly before shifting to me again.

It’s painful. Because I see him. For just a moment, he lets me see him. And there’s hurt and uncertainty and something else—something deeper—in his eyes. But it’s gone in an instant; he blinks it away and turns to the billiards rack.

“Coop—”

“Here, you take this one.” He hands me a cue and then adjusts his hat with his other hand as he regards the remaining cues on the rack. “Uh, that one’s the best. Sarge really needs to replace the rest, but...” He shrugs and then grabs one for himself.

Let’s not fuckin’ talk about it. That’s what he’s trying to say. His eyes almost plead with me as he fakes another grin and then heads over to the pool table to rack the balls.

So much for my apology.

I step up to the table next to him. And I shouldn’t be noticing how good he smells—some fresh, deep, citrus-based scent—and how his biceps ripple as he scoots the rack back and forth a bit to settle the balls in place and how his tongue flicks out of his mouth to wet his lips.

God, his lips.

Warmth spreads from my chest deep down into my belly, and I quickly blink and look away as he straightens back up. Drink. Where’s my drink? In my hand. Right. God, what am I doing?

I take a swig, set it down on the table next to his, and then lay my coat on the back of the closest chair.

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