Page 137 of Bide

Grasping the stem of her glass, Kate chugs half the liquid in five seconds flat. “Gonna have to be a bit more specific, Luna.”

“I can’t.” I can’t do so many things. Talk about it, think about it, look at them, be around anyone without fucking resenting them for their carefree happiness. So, so many things.

I don’t have to see it to feel their disappointment. It clings to me like a shitty, unwanted second skin, like a thin layer of dirt impossible to shower off.

And it only worsens when I risk an upward glance and find the biggest reason for my shaky hands already looking right at me.

It pleases me, just a little, that Jackson’s smile is as dodgy and pained as mine. “Hi.”

God, I missed his voice.

I missed his face.

If I thought seeing a random photo online of him hurt, seeing him in person, up close, has nothing on that. It'saching, how fucking beautiful he is. His hair is still long, thank God. When I dyed mine, this weird intrusive thought popped into my head out of nowhere, so concerned that Jackson did a similar breakup makeover and chopped off all his hair. I'm glad to see I didn't fuck him up that badly.

By some miracle, I keep my composure as I dole out Sambuca. “Want me to leave this here?” I joke with Ben, laughing when he nods greedily, making grabby hands at the bottle. “I'll start a tab.”

Handing over the goods, I start to walk away when a hand on my arm stops me. I swear to fucking God, I know it's him before I even turn around. Some things, some touches, you just never forget.

A flush creeps up my neck as I step away so his hand falls, treating it like a hot poker; painful to stay in contact with for too long. “Everything okay?”

Jackson holds up his other hand, showing me the card slotted between his fingers. “For the tab.”

I take it carefully, a shiver creeping up my arm when his fingers brush mine. A small smile pulls at my lips when I spot flecks of paint on his fingers, an expression that's replaced by a concerned frown for the gnarly looking cut marring his palm. It takes a physical effort to resist the urge to ask him about it. “Thanks.”

Jackson just nods. As if he can't help himself, his eyes linger on me, and I stand there silently, unprotesting, as they roam, his gaze covering every inch of me and leaving warmth wherever they land. It could be a moment, a minute, or even an hour before he clears his throat again and turns around rapidly without another word, snatching his drink off the table and taking a long slug.

Well. That went better than expected.

After dithering for an embarrassingly long second, I slope back to the bar where rapping knuckles catch my attention. Gesturing to the barstool across from her, Gideon shakes her head. “Sit. You're done for the night.”

I hesitate, even as my tired feet and even tired mind scream their thanks. “You sure?”

“We can handle it.” Gideon jerks her head towards the third bartender working tonight, some guy named Rick that is so useless, I honestly forgot he was even here. It appears that in every bar you work at, at least one staff member has to be good-for-nothing. Hence why I don't really want to leave Gideon working on her own.

But in the end, the weak woman in me prevails. My reluctance dissipates when Gideon slides a blessedly overfilled glass of red wine toward me. “You look like you need it.”

I sigh as I slip onto the barstool, grabbing the glass with as much eagerness as Ben grabbed that Sambuca bottle, knocking back at least half of it in a millisecond.

“So,” Gideon rests her elbows on the bar, voice just above a whisper, “who is he?”

I avoid eye contact. “Who is who?”

“Seth Clearwater over there.”

I snort. “Did you just make a Twilight reference?”

A dishtowel whips me on the arm, accompanied by a pair of narrowed, accusatory eyes. “Don't avoid the question.”

The humor in the air fades as I squirm in my seat. “Just an ex.”

Gideon hums thoughtfully, her voice low and teasing. “Doesn't look like just an ex.”

“Gid, please.”

“Fine.” She holds her hands up in surrender. “I'll stop. But I'm just saying, if he was, like, fifteen years older, I would be all over that.”

I blink at her. “You're only four years older than me, Gid.”

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