Page 51 of Come Back To Me

“You can’t just fuck celebrities and not tell me, Yara,” she says.

“He wasn’t one. Not then. He was just a guy who came into the bar and flirted with me.”

“And what did you do to deserve a song like that?”

I picked at the bun on my burger and stared at the floor.

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it,” I say. “It’s bad enough I have to hear the bloody song everywhere I go.”

“I’m so impressed,” says Posey. “I always knew you were a muse, but you got a song on the top ten. Epic shit right there.”

“Posey!”

“All right, all right. When you’re ready, yeah?”

“How are things with you and Samantha?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

She gives me the side-eye. “How many girlfriends have I had in the last five years?”

“Too many to count.”

She points her fork at me. “Exactly.”

“So what are you saying? You’re going to break up with her?”

I pictured them the night I was at her house for the party. They’d seemed really into each other: affectionate, comfortable. But, maybe I’d been too drunk to see the truth. And wasn’t Posey always affectionate? That was just her thing. Even if you weren’t a hugger and she forced you into one, you’d suddenly make an exception.

“I don’t know. For now we’re okay.”

I want to ask more, clarify what she means, but I don’t think she knows yet.

“Ethan talks about you a lot.”

The conversation shifts again, back to me. I hate this ritual of information sharing. When you’re a bartender you can listen to everyone’s dirt without having to be personally involved. That’s the way I like it. Can’t we just sit here in silence and enjoy each other’s company that way? She drains the last of her beer, slams the bottle on the table, and looks at me expectantly. I blink at her, not sure what to say. The morning after he spent the night I’d told him I had a dentist appointment and had to leave. He’d gotten dressed, and so had I, and then I walked him downstairs, waiting until he was around the corner before returning to my flat.

He’s called a couple times since then, texted too. But, I’ve been firm about my rejection. I am in no way, shape, or form willing to date someone. I don’t know that I ever have been. Most people move through life looking for some elusive soulmate experience. I am trying my hardest to avoid it. Does that make me fucked up or wise? Who knows, who cares?

“He’s not my type,” I say, looking around for the server. If Posey is going to be launching questions for the rest of lunch I need to top off my wine.

“So, this David Lisey guy is…was—?”

She’s baiting me. I shoot her a dirty look and slouch down in my seat.

“I don’t have a type. That’s the honest truth. I believe in connections, and yes, I had one with him.”

Posey has sleepy eyes. If you didn’t know her, she gave you the impression that she was incredibly bored with whatever you were saying. When she smoked pot her lids drooped even lower, and it looked like she was sneering at you. But, at the mention of David, her eyes are wide open, like someone has just thrown water in her face.

“Did you fuck him?”

It’s a trigger. I see myself lost beneath him as he moves over me. His smooth skin beneath my fingertips, hot and damp. He’s not constrained like other men, he’s not trying to be careful with his reactions. Each time he pushes into me, he moans, his face flashing expressions that ranged from pain, to relief, to shock. I felt like music the whole time. I was an instrument and he was reveling in the way I played.

“Yeah,” I tell Posey.

She smiles. It takes a minute for me to be back in this dingy pub, the windows filmed over with a layer of scum. I can still taste him on my lips, smell his skin.

“When did you run?”

I shrug.

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