Page 59 of His To Erase
I don’t say thank you, or goodbye, I just end the call and stare at the wall like it might bleed answers.
Ani
I’m running on fumes. The kind that don’t explode right away, just burn slow and spiteful, waiting to choke you out when you least expect it.
The bar’s a mess tonight—too many laughs, too many glass clinks ricocheting off my skull, and the bass thudding against my ribs like a second heartbeat I never fucking asked for is making my head pound. I move on autopilot. Pour. Smile. Don’t stab anyone. Repeat.
I toss out some sarcasm to the regulars like breadcrumbs, keeping them fed so they don’t look too close. God forbid someone realizes I’m not actually here, just a glorified ghost with a liquor license and unresolved trauma.
The truth is, I haven’t slept. Not really. Not since the nightmares started clawing through whatever peace I had left.
Every time I close my eyes, my brain thinks it’s hilarious to rerun the worst parts of my subconscious like it’s hosting a film festival. Flashes of blood, a crash, a scream that tastes like minebut might not be. Then I wake up soaked in sweat and half a second from vomiting.
Fun.
And of course—guess who hasn’t come back.
Tattoo Man.
Library philosopher. Whiskey menace. Whatever.
I keep telling myself that’s a good thing. No more brooding eyes or cocky smirks that see too much. No more subtle touches that make me forget why I built all these walls in the first place.
Still…every time the door creaks open, I look.
I wish I could stop thinking about him, but my body wants something it shouldn’t. Clearly I’m a glutton for punishment and bad decisions wrapped in tattoos and self-control issues. So instead, I’ve been forcing my brain to focus on something safer. Something mine.
My bookshop.
I haven’t said it out loud to anyone yet, because saying it makes it real and real things get ruined. But I’ve got tomorrow night off, and if the universe doesn’t implode in the next twenty-four hours, I’m going to check out a few locations with Sarah.
It feels far away, like this isn’t for people like me kind of far.
Still, it’s the only thing that keeps me from unraveling when the silence gets too sharp.
My phone buzzes beneath the bar, but I don’t have to check to know who it is. The stupid unknown number that’s been sending me messages for a few weeks now.
I ignore it. Just like the last three. Even though my stomach knots in that too-familiar way, like it’s bracing for something I haven’t figured out yet.
It could be Sloane. Or Sarah. Or some drunk asshole playing games.
I don’t want to know.
A sharp crack cuts through the bar—someone slamming a pool stick like they just lost their pride and I flinch harder than I should.
I take a breath, rolling my shoulders.
I’ve got shit to do and falling apart during happy hour isn’t on the menu.
I’m behind the counter drying glasses that probably weren’t even dirty, when I glance up—and there he is.
Frank.
Parked in the corner like he owns it, with one arm draped over the back of the booth, and a drink already in front of him.
I didn’t even see him come in.
Must’ve been one of the new girls who served him. He’s just smooth enough to make you doubt yourself.
