Page 5 of Come Back To Me

I slid his drink over. I was trying not to overthink that. He was playing a game with me.

“I like your attention-seeking haircut,” I said. “What is that called? The jackass?”

He laughed. “This is already the most abusive relationship I’ve ever been in and it’s all done with an accent, which somehow makes me enjoy it.”

“I’m just getting started.” I walked away before he could say anything else, the table of sequined girls beckoning me over.

For the next two hours, I made a point of ignoring him, only stopping by once to take his food order and refill his drink. I was a reactive person; it took a certain chemistry to lure me out of my shell. I didn’t like that he was doing it. I was here to take a break from all that. A break from men—especially artists. Mostly artists. I ignored him, but he didn’t ignore me. Every time I turned around, he was watching me, an almost thoughtful expression on his face. His eyes, a mossy green, were used as weapons. They were honest eyes, and so you trusted him, all the while he undressed you with them.

“Yara,” I said. I was hoping to distract him, make him stop looking at me like that.

“What time do you get off, Yara?” he asked.

I was stacking plates on a tray so I could carry them to the kitchen. I licked my lips, not wanting to answer the question.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

He shrugged with his lips. “Here and there. I’ve been living in the city for about a year. How long have you been here?”

“Couple months,” I said.

“Did you come straight from the UK?”

I shook my head and a whole section of my hair sprang out of the clip holding it together. It tumbled over my shoulder and his eyes widened.

“No. I’ve been traveling around. Chicago, LA, Miami, New Orleans, New York, and now Seattle.”

“Trying to find a place you like?” He took a sip of his drink. He looked distracted.

Wouldn’t that be something? Finding one place I liked.

I shook my head. “No. I’m just experiencing. I already have a place I like. What’s your name?” That was a boundary crossed, asking a man his name. Then you had it to use, to think about.

“David,” he said.

“David,” I repeated. “That’s a nice, solid name. And your surname?”

“My surname,” he mimicked. His smile came late, a few seconds after his words. It was slow spreading and warm. “It’s Lisey.”

“David Lisey,” I said, nodding. “Are you a musician?” I nodded over to his guitar case.

“I am. How did you guess?” he teased.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe it’s your asshole haircut.”

“I’m not an asshole,” he said. “I’m a heartless romantic.”

“What’s the difference?”

He thought about it. “I believe. But without the proof.”

I rolled my eyes. It made me feel juvenile to roll my eyes, but there it was. Men always brought out the best in me.

“You fuck girls without getting to know them and hope to fall in love.”

“Yes,” he said. “Is that the wrong way to do it?”

“I don’t know, let’s ask Elizabeth.”

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