Page 96 of A Forever Love

“You’ve got to accept the past as it stands. You can’t change what’s already happened, but you can take charge of the present. That’s the only way forward for guys like us, Carter. The emotions we hide beneath our tough exteriors need to understand they can’t control our lives. You have to find a way to let this pain breathe.” Uncle Connor wheels away from the couch and pats my arm. “And remember, we’re here whenever you’re ready to talk about it.”

“Thank you.” Feeling that’s not enough, I add, “I will someday.”

* * *

I remain rooted in the living room long after my uncles have left. My eyes fix on the crystal pieces of the chandelier above. Lying on the couch, I hope sleep will finally claim me. But tonight is not my night. After a few more moments of observing the intricate patterns of golden light reflecting off the prisms, I give up.

Less than an hour later, I find myself perched on the same barstool where I met Brandon in Rendezvous.

“What’s a handsome man like you doing out at this hour?” The bartender drawls as she slides my order of a neat whiskey before me.

“Hoping to have a drink in peace.”

She chuckles at my words. “If that’s what you wanted, you wouldn’t be here. I think you’re hoping for the opposite. You don’t want peace tonight. What are you running from, handsome?”

“Right now, from intrusive bartenders.” I turn to leave, but she grabs the sleeve of my jacket.

“This is the quietest corner tonight. We have two groups. The first…” She gestures with her left hand toward a table of twenty-something college grads, who seem to be hoarding drinks as if there’s going to be a booze shortage tomorrow. “And the second is a bachelorette party.” Her right eyebrow arches emphatically, and I quickly scan the lively group before refocusing on the bar.

“Fuck.”

As we speak, the women in pink sashes, each reading ‘Bride’s Gang’ in elegant calligraphy, are dragging men onto the dance floor to join the bride.

The bartender chuckles. “Don’t worry. If they come for you, I’ll inform them you’re a serial killer who’s only been out of jail for a few hours.”

“Hey, I don’t even look like a serial killer.”

“No, you don’t. You look like a man in love, harboring guilt.”

Spot on, lady. But of course, I’m not going to give her the pleasure of knowing that.

“Can you tend to others?” I gesture toward the two men engrossed in a political discussion at the bar.

“No. Your story seems more interesting.” She flicks her tongue piercing. Her dreadlocks form a thick bun adorned with blue and purple feathers that match her bold makeup—thick mascara and purple lipstick. Tattoos adorn her arms. Her entire appearance makes it hard to pinpoint her age. She could be anywhere between her thirties to late forties. “If you’re done analyzing me, can we talk about you?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m good at listening and giving advice, and tonight I’m in the mood to be your fairy godmother.”

“No, thanks. I’m not Cinderella.”

“Who said the prince didn’t have his own fairy godmother who promised him that he’d find his love that night at the ball? Maybe since the writer was busy penning Cinderella’s story, he ignored the prince. Tell me, why do you think you’re not the best guy for her?”

“Because I’m the one I’d pledged to destroy and burn. I’m the reason she felt pain, enough to make her leave everything behind. She suffered for four freaking years, but I don’t even know what she endured.” I find myself sharing the events of that night with this stranger. “Jena is right. I’m a psychopath. I made her dependent on me and then didn’t care about her feelings. What kind of jerk am I?”

“The kind who didn’t know about her feelings. Men are dense that way. They need things spelled out clearly in words.”

“Are you mocking me right now?”

“No. I am telling you that even great scholars believe that to err is human. And you’re just another man in a bar, and you’re not even a serial killer.”

“I’m a pretty big deal in my business, just so you know.”

“Uh-huh.” She seems more interested in picking up the salted peanuts from the counter than my status. Why the fuck do I even care? Yet, I can’t stop from explaining.

“What I did was not a simple mistake. I don’t even know the impact that incident had on her.”

“Why? Why don’t you know what happened?” She places a cleaning rag on the counter, and my eyes fixate on the lily tattoo on her wrist, identical to Merida’s. I don’t respond because, truthfully, I can’t tear my gaze away from it and the stem of a semicolon.

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