Page 18 of Love in Focus

All things considered, I don’t regret jumping into a relationship with James. I wouldn’t be who I am—whereI am—without the choices I made in the last eight years. If I hadn’t moved up to San Francisco, I would have never met Val or Kiara, two friends I can’t even imagine my life without now. I would have never met Evelyn or any of my coworkers atHorizon. But I do wish things between Celeste and me hadn’t happened the way they did.

I regret hurting the person that was once the love of my life.

“I’m so sorry, Celeste,” I reply, because that’s the only thing I manage to say out loud. It’s my turn to drink.

“Hey, everyone, we’re the Irish Fighters!” announces the Dave Grohl look-alike onstage. “We’re usually a Foo Fighters cover band, but in the spirit of the holiday season, we’llbe bringing you some good ole holiday music, along with some crowd favorites that you’ll probably recognize. So, sing along, be jolly, and get drunk! Happy holidays!”

Cheers erupt from all around us. Celeste wipes away her tears and relaxes her shoulders. She looks visibly grateful for the distraction.

I also try to relax and take another sip of my beer.

“Are we good now?” Celeste asks when the people around us settle down. Her gaze is softer now, even though it’s still a little tense. “Or at least, good enough for us to work together? I don’t know about you, but to me, it sounds like we both fucked up. I mean, our frontal lobes hadn’t even fully developed yet, so I guess it’s not surprising. I’m willing to put the past behind us if you are, since I know this project is important for both you and me. I’d hate for what happenedeight years agoto get in the way of it.”

Before I can even formulate a response, Fake Grohl shouts into his mic, “Let’s start off with a song Iknowyou all know the lyrics to! Here’s ‘Mr. Brightside’!”

I groan and cover my face with my hands. A burst of laughter escapes from Celeste. I look up in time to see a small, knowing smile flash across her face before it disappears. She must remember how much I hate this song—because it’s so overplayed, no real offense to the Killers.

Drunken cheers fill the pub as the band plays the all-too-familiar opening riff. People start bouncing up and down, belting the lyrics and rendering all conversation impossible. A single song has somehow unified everyone at theIrishman’s Jig. Once-strangers now have their arms around each other’s shoulders as they scream-sing in unison.

As much as I hate “Mr. Brightside,” in this moment, I’m grateful for the song, because I have no idea how to answer Celeste’s question. We’re not “good,” but we’re no longer “bad,” either. My emotions were already a jumbled mess after the last several weeks. And our conversation only made things worse.

Celeste orders another round for us, and we both down our drinks. Before I even know what’s happening, she has her arm around my shoulders, loudly singing the chorus along with the rest of the pub. I roll my eyes, but I join in anyway, because of course, I’ve heard “Mr. Brightside” enough times to know all the lyrics. Even though I prefer “Somebody Told Me” over it any day.

The small building shakes from all the yelling. Celeste and I laugh as one drunk woman tries to stand up on one of the tables, only to be waved off by a waiter.

We get a few more songs and drinks in when suddenly, my stomach lurches. The ground spins beneath my feet, and I sit back down.

“I think I need to head home,” I hear myself saying. My own voice sounds far away, like it’s on the other side of a tunnel.

Celeste takes the beer glass from my hand and sets it down on the table.

“Okay,” she says, “let’s get you home. Where do you live?”

Even in my drunken state, I panic, realizing that if I tellher my current address, there’s a good chance that she and my friends will cross paths. Which is something I can’t deal with right now.

“I don’t know,” I lie.

Celeste’s eyes widen in concern. “You must be more drunk than I thought.”

Trying to tell her I’m fine, I get out of my seat and stand up, only for the ground to come rushing toward me.

“Gem!” Celeste grabs my arm so I don’t crash onto the floor. The sudden change in momentum makes me careen toward her. She grabs me before we hit each other, but not before my lips almost graze hers.

My eyes widen. Hers do, too. Celeste has gorgeous eyes, a rich, mocha brown that are several shades darker than mine.

I drop my gaze to her red-painted lips.

If I were sober, I would have pushed her away and wiped my mouth in disgust. If I were sober, I’d have even thrown salt behind my back.

But I’m not sober. And in this one moment, Ireallywant to kiss Celeste.

So I do.

When Celeste first got Gemma’s email, the last thing she expected to happen was for she and her ex to be pressed against each other, lip-locked while a local band scream-sang “Jingle Bell Rock.” But life’s full of surprises.

Gemma’s lips are warm and impossibly soft, just the way Celeste remembers them being. Even the flavor of the beer is familiar, since Blue Moon was always Gemma’s favorite. Celeste is pretty sure the last time she tasted Blue Moon, it was on Gemma’s lips, too.

Celeste lets the kiss go on for longer than she should, but she pulls away before their tongues can touch. Because sheis notFrench-kissing her ex. Not now, not ever.

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