Page 26 of If He Hadn't Cheated
My skin is dull. My eyes are shadowed. I still don’t recognize the girl in the mirror, and I’m not sure I want to. She looks haunted. Like she’s been wandering through smoke for years.
I cover my face with my hands and try to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
It still hurts.
By the time I leave the apartment, the world has already moved on without me. People on sidewalks. Cars honking. Kids in school uniforms holding their parents’ hands. It’s all too loud. Too fast.
I head to work early. Not because I care. But because it’s the only place where my body knows what to do even if my brain doesn’t.
The Velvet Room is half-lit and empty when I arrive. The smell of cleaning solution clings to the counters. Jaz is behind the bar, restocking the shelf with practiced boredom.
“You look like hell,” she says without looking at me.
“Thanks. You always know how to make a girl feel welcome.”
She glances up. Her eyes scan my face. I see the worry behind her sarcasm, but she doesn’t press it. She hands me a rag. “Make yourself useful.”
I take it and start wiping down the back counter. My hands move on autopilot. It’s almost soothing, the repetition of it. The clink of bottles. The scrape of glass. The familiar smells.
Jazz turns the music on low, something ambient and instrumental. It doesn’t help much, but it drowns out the static in my head.
Around seven, the bar starts to fill.
It’s a slow night. A Tuesday. Mostly regulars and a few tourists who think they’ve found something cool. I smile when I need to. I pour when asked. I laugh when prompted.
It’s not real. But it’s enough to keep me upright.
Then Knox walks in. Guilt for breaking last night sets in.
He doesn’t say anything at first. He just walks to the bar, takes the same seat he always takes, and waits. I avoid him for a while. I serve other people. I pretend I don’t feel his eyes on me. But eventually, I make my way over.
“What are you drinking?” I ask.
He studies me for a second. “How are you?”
“I didn’t ask for small talk.”
“I know.”
He nods at the shelf behind me. “Pour me whatever you had last night.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous request.”
“I can handle it.”
I pour him a whiskey. Neat. No ice. No water. Just the burn. Like the empty bottle in the bottom of my trash can.
He takes it and holds it in both hands like it’s something sacred.
We don’t speak for a while.
Then he says, “You look tired.”
I shrug. “I’m used to it after the night I had.”
“Sleeping?”
“No.”
