Page 11 of His

My second home.

When I first moved here, I didn’t leave my cabin, aside from going to the grocery store, for six weeks. For almost two months I did nothing but lay in bed and cry. Trying to come to terms with what happened. Trying to push it all away. Trying to forget about him—and his wife.

The only thing that would get me out of bed was Astor’s bi-weekly visits. I would drag myself to the front door, as close to him as possible without letting him in—physically and emotionally—then drag myself back to bed after he left.

Eventually, the need for human interaction crept up and I set out to find the nearest bar. I wasn’t necessarily looking for friends, I just wanted to be in the presence of other living, breathing people.

Boots and Bourbon is so much of a southern cliche, that at first, I thought I’d walked onto the set of a movie. It’s a real honky tonk bar with hardwood floors, walls covered in road signs, torn leather booths, and an old red jukebox in the corner. A pool table sits in the back, in front of a small stage where they host karaoke multiple times a week. (My new favorite obsession).

Tourists don’t come here. This is a local’s place.

Wearing a pair of jean cut-offs, a faded Madonna T-shirt, and flip flops, I saddle up to my usual seat at the end of the bar. The woman who used to wear cocktail dresses and Louboutins died in the airport hangar. That naive little girl is long gone—and I’m still trying to figure out who's taken her place.

“Hey there,” Josh, the bartender greets me, wiping his hands on a towel. Covered in tattoos, Josh wears the same black T-shirt and torn jeans every day. He’s the only regular here who hasn’t asked me on a date, and because of that, I feel comfortable with him. We’ve fallen into an easy, surface-level friendship. One time, Josh asked why I turn down every man who approaches me.

Because once you’ve had Astor Stone, no one else compares.

“The usual?” He asks as a burst of laughter rings out from a trio of drunken cowgirls playing pool in the back. Betting one of them is Hot Mess Express.

“Please.”

Josh pops the top of a cold longneck and hands it to me.

Along with jean shorts, I’ve also started drinking beer. I ordered my first for no other reason than to fit in (everyone around here drinks beer), but to my surprise, I found myself enjoying the cool, refreshing buzz it offers.

The juke box switches to an old country song and I lean back and watch the muted football game on the television mounted in the corner. This is my routine. After three beers, I’ll sign the check, call it a night, and, on the way home, be proud of myself for actually leaving the house.

As usual, my thoughts slip back to Astor and anticipating his next arrival.

I knew after his first visit that he wouldn’t stop. After all, Astor’s identity has been built on loss, which has manifested into controlling behavior, demanding that those he loves be kept under lock and key. I think, somewhere deep down, the reason I fled the area was because I knew me leaving would hurt Astor the most. It’s hard to keep tabs on something that’s three-thousand miles away.

Astor has lost his mother and his daughter. Not to mention the hundreds of deaths doled out by him and his mercenaries. Death lives and breathes inside of him. The constant vigilance that comes with knowing that his loved ones are potential targets, combined with unaddressed grief, turned Astor into a callous man.

Astor quite literally cannot function if he believes someone he cares about is in danger, and he acts out of fear, walling them off from the rest of the world, while thinking he’s doing the right thing. This obsession has had a profound ripple effect on those close to him. Both Valerie and her sister, Prishna, went to great lengths to get out from under Astor’s thumb.

I struggle with it myself, part of me knowing how unhealthy it is, while another part of me revels in his obsession with me, counting the seconds until I can see him again, even if only through my peephole.

Eight

Sabine

I’m on my second beer when a man steps up beside me.

“Is this seat taken?” he asks in a southern accent almost as thick as the beard on his face.

I take him in, tall, thick, with kind blue eyes that sparkle with clarity—which means he’s not drunk. Which means he’s safe.

“Have a seat.”

The man settles in next to me. I catch the scent of motor oil on his skin. An auto mechanic, then. A good guy to know when you drive a vehicle that was eligible for the “antique car” license plate.

“I’ve got twenty on the Razorbacks,” he jerks his chin to the television, then leans in, “but don’t tell anyone that. Name’s Rick.”

“Your secret’s safe with me, Rick. I’m Sabine, and which one is the razorbacks?”

Rick snorts. “Not a football fan, then.”

“No.”

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