Page 5 of If He Hadn't Cheated
She gives me a look. The kind that says she doesn’t believe me, but she knows better than to push. No one really asks questions here unless they want their own secrets exposed in return.
The music changes. Something with a slower beat, darker, sexier. The lights dim half a notch and the whole place shifts. It always does around this time, as if the building itself has moods.
I pour myself a glass of water and sip slowly. My stomach is tight, restless. Every few minutes, I glance at the clock. Every minute that passes feels like a fight I’m not sure I’m winning.
My phone buzzes against the register. I snatch it up fast, too fast. But it’s just a reminder for rent. Not a call. Not a text. Nothing from anyone that matters.
I set the phone down and stare at the screen. I see my reflection faintly in the black. Pale skin. Hollow cheeks. Mascara already smudged even though it’s only 8 p.m. my hair in bad need of a refresh. I can’t remember the last time I could afford a day at the salon. I haven’t slept properly in three nights. I haven’t eaten anything solid since yesterday’s toast. And my body feels like it’s moving on momentum alone.
A guy at the center of the bar catches my eye. He’s watching me. Tall. Olive skin. Sharp jaw. Designer suit, open collar. He looks like someone who should be in a boardroom, not a bar. But here he is, leaning forward with a look that says he’s already imagined undressing me.
I flash him the kind of smile I’ve learned to perfect. Not too much teeth. Just enough suggestion. Just enough pain.
He raises his glass in salute and mouths, “One more?”
I nod, already reaching for the bourbon.
It’s always like this. Eye contact. A glance. A drink. A room. A morning I regret from actions I hardly remember.
And still I do it. Over and over again. Because the silence in the moment my brain shuts down is the only time I can hear myself breathe.
The rest of the night slides by like it’s underwater. Music. Orders. Tips. Laughter. The shaker in my hands becomes part of my body. I’m mechanical. Smiling when I’m supposed to. Flirting when it earns an extra five on the bill. Pretending I care when someone slurs out their latest heartbreak.
Jazz brushes past me again. “You going out after?”
“Maybe.”
She arches a brow. “You said that last time. Then you vanished.”
“Guess I’m mysterious now.”
She gives a low chuckle and walks off.
The truth is, I did vanish. I went home with a man whose name I never asked. I ended up in a hallway I didn’t recognize, tasting gin and regret on his skin. I left before dawn, barefoot, bleeding from the inside out.
I don’t even remember what he looked like. Just the way he gripped my waist too hard. The way I let him.
At midnight, the crowd begins to thin. The regulars settle in deeper. The rookies fade out.
I wipe down the bar again.
The man in the suit is still there.
When I bring his check, he places a hotel room key beside his card.
Room 1103. The Waverly.
Of course. A man like him chooses The Waverly.
He doesn’t speak. Just looks at me like I’m a drink he’s planning to savor. I pick up the key and tuck it into my backpocket. I tell myself I won’t go. That I’ll throw it away with the empty limes and dirty napkins. That I’ll take the subway home and actually sleep in my own bed tonight.
But I already know I’m lying.
Because sleep brings dreams.
And dreams bring memories.
And memories bring Sebastian.
