Page 8 of Come Back To Me

David reached up and crossed his heart.

“Pulled one splinter and everything changed. I started to write. I’m on the verge of something and I need your help.”

“A coincidence,” I said.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Be my muse.”

“You’d have to fall in love with me. Have you ever been in love?”

He almost answered. Almost. His mouth was poised around the words. But then a couple walked through the doors and sat down at the far end of the bar. I looked at him regretfully and walked away.

“Go home,” I called back to him. “You’re drunk.”

By the time I was done taking their order, David Lisey’s bar stool was empty. I smiled as I cleared what was left of his dinner dishes, stacking them on my arm. He’d left a scrap of paper under his plate, his number scribbled on it.For Yara,it said.My muse.

I threw it away.No. Nope.Not happening, Lisey. Asshole haircut or not. Cut arms or not. Magical singing voice or not. The men I’d been with had been cloying in their need for me. They wanted and expected and it drained me until there was nothing to do but leave. It was entirely one-sided, but none of them ever thought that. That was the thing about artists, they didn’t often think of you. Their energy had a narrow focus, a spotlight on their art…their insecurities…the unfairness of the world. I’d tried dating a banker, an engineer, a botanist, but they’d been addicted to their careers in a different way, and I found them lacking the unbridled passion I was used to.

He didn’t come back for two weeks. I thought I was in the clear. I’d come to Seattle to focus on myself, to embrace aloneness, and I had done just that. It was almost time to go home.

“Yara.”

His voice startled me. The beer I was pouring flowed over my hand, pooling in the drain. I glanced over my shoulder and there he was, a beanie on his head, scruffy face, soft eyes—staring, staring.

“You again,” I said.

He laughed. Placing a hand over his heart, he said, “I hope you say that to me every morning.”

I hated that I smiled. That he could turn my jabs into something endearing.

“What time do you get off?”

“In ten minutes,” I said. “But I’m not coming to your show and we’re not getting a drink.”

“Okay,” he sighed. “I’ll just have a drink here then.” He slid into his usual bar stool and folded his hands on the counter, all proper like. It looked like he was preparing for a meeting.

“You’re so ridiculous,” I said.

“In love,” he corrected with a grin.

“Sure,” I shrugged. “It’s late afternoon so I’m not sure if I’m supposed to get you a beer or Jack and Coke.”

“Beer. Yara…let’s talk.” He tapped his palm on the bar top like he’d just thought of the best idea.

“Can’t. I’m working.”

He looked around the bar. “It’s empty.” It was true—he’d come in that in-between time, the witching hour between lunch and dinner.

“What do you want?”

He straightened up, cleared his throat. I almost laughed, but I was too weary.

“A muse.”

“You want a new fuck buddy, not a muse.”

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