Page 68 of Back to Me

“Fine,” I grit out. “I’ll give you ten minutes. Ten minutes, then I’m out of there.”

I hang up, not allowing her the chance to refute me. As I stalk back to my room to dress in something a little more presentable than a bathrobe, I think about all the things I’ve wanted to say to Allison for years but never felt I could and how this might finally be my chance.

***

“Sara!”

Hearing my name the moment I walk into the bar, I spot Allison sitting along the bar, the stem of a martini glass pinched between her fingers.

She’s wearing her staple outfit—a pencil skirt, button-down blouse, and knee-high boots. However, I notice how her clothes are slightly different. As if to fit with the style of the changing seasons, the color of her skirt is a rich plum, her flared-sleeve blouse is a dark mustard yellow, and her knee-high boots a deep shade of brown.

I give her a small nod on my way over, nausea rising in my throat. I’m suddenly self-conscious and aware of my body. I pull the neckline of my V-neck sweater a little higher on my chest and smooth out the hem, hoping it will somehow bring me some comfort. I did the best I could under the circumstances. I still feel the absence of Graham even when I’m not in the apartment. A simple changing of my clothes and the curling of my hair doesn’t do anything to alleviate the pain and emptiness I feel.

I slide onto the barstool beside Allison, not facing her, not even turning toward her, flagging down the bartender and order a double vodka, straight up. If I’m going to be dealing with Allison, I want the strongest drink I can think of at the moment. Looking down at the bar top, I pick at the corner of my drink napkin.

“I suggest you start talking now. You’re already down to nine minutes.”

I feel her shift in her seat. She leans back, crossing one leg over the other. From the corner of my eye, I can see her staring me down. She taps her perfectly manicured fingers against the edge of the counter and smirks.

“My, my, my, Sara. Haven’t we gotten a little feisty?”

I shake my head and laugh a humorless laugh. “Right,” I scoff. “You aren’t used to someone speaking to you like this. How does it feel to have a taste of your own medicine?”

Finally, I spin on my barstool and face her.

Her eyebrows arch as she gazes at me, amused by my boldness. Grinning, she sits up, resting her arm against her crossed leg.

“Listen, Sara. I can see why you keep speaking to me this way, but I really did ask you here to speak to you honestly. So, if you’re done with your sarcastic comments, can we get started, or do you have some more choice words to share with me?”

I’m staring Allison down when the bartender comes back over, placing the small glass of vodka in front of me. Without breaking my eyes away from her, I pick up the drink, bring it to my lips, swallowing the entire contents in one gulp. Slamming the glass down on the counter, I scoot back, resting my back against the stool.

“I’ve had a pretty shitty twenty-four hours, so excuse me if I find your sudden care and concern about talking to me a little odd. You never cared for me before, so why should I believe you now?”

“I can see that.” Her eyes size me up, taking me in, head to toe. I want to slap her. I want to smack the five-hundred-dollar makeup right off her face. I wish I hadn’t drunk my entire glass of vodka so I could have the satisfaction of splashing it in her face.

But my glass is dry, and I don’t have the nerve to smack her. Sliding my glass closer to the opposite edge, I begin making my way off the barstool when Allison’s hand lands against my arm.

“Wait,” she pleads. Her eyes have softened, and my breath stills. I feel like I’m looking at a stranger. “Please stay.”

Pressing my lips together, I take a deep breath and sit back down. I ask the bartender for a refill before letting Allison begin.

“I’m sorry,” she blurts out.

Precisely four seconds pass with me blankly staring at Allison before I tilt my head back, laughing. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” She says the words slower, allowing me to fully process what she’s telling me. Her face contorts into one of discomfort like the words leave a bad taste in her mouth.

Straightening my back, I clear my throat, unsure of how to respond. The bartender comes back with my second double vodka, but I don’t immediately drink it, staring straight through the clear liquid.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you apologize. You’re going to have to give me a few seconds here to process it.”

Nodding, she leans forward and sighs, resting her arms against the edge of the counter. Picking up the toothpick from her empty martini glass, she bites around an olive, sliding it off between her teeth, chewing and around a mouthful of crushed olive.

“I know.”

“I may regret asking this, and I probably have a long list of answers, but I’m going to ask it, anyway. Why are you apologizing to me?” Absently looking around the room, my eyes fall back on her. “Why now?”

Swallowing the rest of her olive, she turns her face to me, keeping her body facing the bar. “Honestly, every answer you’re guessing is most likely correct.”

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