Page 4 of From West, With Regret

“Are you okay?” the bartender asks.

Kind eyes. He has kind eyes.

“I am now.”

He’s right. Honesty does reveal itself faster than a lie.

He straightens his back and keeps his gaze trained on mebefore cutting it away. He grabs a small towel and starts wiping down the counter. I watch his hand move across the smooth surface, how his corded muscles stretch and flex.

“Have you ever done something, then regretted it when it was too late?”

He abruptly stops cleaning. I expect him to look up at me, but he doesn’t. He keeps his eyes trained on the glossy wood for ten long seconds before resuming his work. “No.” He clears his throat.

“Oh.” I look down in my lap and play with my wedding ring. I slip it up to my knuckle, then back to its place at the base of my finger.

“But I have regrettednotdoing something once it was too late,” he adds.

I snap my head back up to look at him, and my throat is suddenly dry. The necklace he’s wearing glints under the golden lights above. I swallow the heat rising in my throat, allowing my confession to pour out of me. “I regret marrying my husband. Heath.”

The bartender stops cleaning completely, dropping his towel back down behind the counter. He glances around the bar. Maybe I’m making him uncomfortable, but I can’t help it. I’m never going to see this man again, and I’ve kept my secrets locked in a box for far too long. Freedom is now mine, and I have no one holding me back from speaking my truth.

“He was a horrible person.” My confession easily slips through my lips. “At first, he was sweet. Said all the right things, did all the right things. He claimed to understand me and my hesitancy when it came to relationships.” I keep the details of my accident to myself, because exposing that part of my life seems a step too far with this stranger. “He earned my trust, but it was almost as if he became a different person oncewe were married.”

The bartender’s shoulders tense, and his eyes harden. “Did he hurt you?”

“Physically, sometimes. Emotionally and mentally, always,” I say, heat blooming in my cheeks. “He was an asshole. He’d get angry over the littlest things. He was possessive in a way that made me want to scream. He was controlling, and I felt trapped in a marriage with a man who promised everything but gave me nothing. He did it in a way that wasn’t obvious, too. First, it was him asking me to put aside my art to make sure I was already home when he stepped through the door. Then it was the bank accounts, making sure I’d only spend a certain amount each day. Then it was what I wore and when. He gloated about his wealth. It became the spearhead for every aspect of his life, and he never made an effort to include me in it. Which leads me to today.” I thumb the corner of my napkin.

“Where you’re making a list as a eulogy.”

“Yeah,” I sigh. “You probably think I’m a terrible wife for not feeling sorry my husband is gone.”

“Out of everything you just confessed, you think that’s where my mind went?”

I shrug. “Whether he was a good person or not, a man is dead.”

“How you choose to live your life matters. Even in death,” he argues.

I blow out a heavy breath. “I guess you’re right.”

I’m staring at my napkin and the blank spaces, my mind just as blank. I’m not only talking about my lack of great things to say about Heath, either. In general, my mind is blank. There are nothing but black holes of emptiness begging to be filled with color, begging to be remembered.

My phone dings inside my purse, and I tug it free.

There’s a text from my sister, Selene. I send her a quick message back, telling her I’ll let her know when the funeral isover. After I hit send, I read the time in the top corner of the screen.

“Shit.” I hiss, sliding out of my stool. My black ankle boots land on the marble flooring with a heavy thud.

“Everything okay?” the bartender asks, his eyes wide.

I sling my purse over my shoulder. “I have to go. I’m going to be late.” I turn on my heel and take a few steps before screeching to a halt, then spin around and march back over to my stool. The beer I ordered still sits untouched. I fish inside my purse for my wallet. “How much do I owe you for the drink?”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s on me.”

My heart hammers in my chest when my eyes lock on to his.

Kind eyes. He has kind eyes.

“Are you sure? Won’t your boss get upset with you giving away a drink?”

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