Page 43 of Versions Of Us

This place has always been an anchorage to me. To all of us. A place to go when there was nowhere else. A safe harbour when we had trouble navigating the turbulence of our lives.

The tavern has never changed. The same old rustic wooden floor creaks beneath my feet, the same dim glow emanating from the bar’s overhead lights. Some things in this life are just better off staying the same and Steve’s Tavern is one of them. So many memories are tied up within these walls, a rich sense of nostalgia echoing through its open rafters.

“Kristen!” Dylan gasps, his head popping up from behind the bar, his eyes as wide as a deer’s caught in the headlights. “Jesus Christ. You scared me. Did I not lock that door?”

“Nope,” I answer, with a slight shake of my head.

I toss my satchel bag onto the bar and take a seat.

“We’re closed.” He rubs his palm along the back of his neck, the detachment conveyed in those two words baffling. Dylan is usually friendly toward me, playful. But tonight, he seems oddly distant.

Uninviting.

“Yeah, I know,” I tell him, cocking my head to the side. “Just saw the light was on and thought I’d stop by.”

I realise how silly the words sound as they leave my mouth. The truth is I don’t know what lead me here. So, the light is on upstairs? How is that any of my business? I guess my mind is more messed up from tonight’s difficult conversations with strangers than I originally thought.

“Right,” he replies, curtly. “It’s just that I’m beat, and I still have a lot to do here.”

I nod, unsure of where this newfound attitude has stemmed from. I frown as a loud thump resonates from overhead, followed by a scuffing sound, as though someone is sliding something along the floor above.

Dylan’s eyes dart to the ceiling, then back to mine. “You should go,” he says. “You know, so I can pack up and get home. It’s been a long night.”

“What’s going on?” I ask. “Who’s upstairs?”

“No one,” he lies.

I roll my eyes. “Spare me the crap, Dylan. I saw the light on.”

He sighs, a deep and raspy breath leaving him as his chest deflates. He doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t have to.

Somehow, I know.

I haven’t set foot in the loft since I got caught playing hide and seek with EJ up there as a ten-year-old wild child, but I still remember where the stairs are.

I vaguely hear Dylan’s protests as I race to the back, climbing them without a second thought, my boots pounding heavily with every step.

I stop dead when I reach the top, unbelieving of what I see before me.

I’ve thought about the possibility of this moment for the past six months, never really believing it would happen. Even if I’d been certain that I was going to see him again one day, nothing could have prepared me for it.

That didn’t stop my mind from playing out every possible scenario of this long-awaited reunion though. There was the one where I said nothing and let my fist do the talking. The one where I had nothing to say and simply walked away. Then there was the one where I confronted him, ripping him to shreds with my words, six months of carefully rehearsed insults pouring out of me like word vomit.

But when I see him there, bent over a large cardboard box, everything I’ve ever wanted to say vanishes from memory. Something squeezes in my chest, an iron fist around my heart, crushing, reminding me that no matter how much anger fills my veins, the hurt will always win out.

His body goes rigid. He hasn’t looked at me yet, but he knows I’m here. There’s no way he didn’t hear my feet pounding up the steps and Dylan’s pleas for me to stay downstairs.

He places the box down, straightening to his full height and it jolts me. His form is different. He’s still tall obviously, but there’s more definition in his back muscles, his t-shirt stretching over broader shoulders than I remember.

A defeated sigh escapes him as he pushes blonde strands of hair out of his eyes. He’s grown out the short, neat cut he once had. He looks good, though I don’t want to admit it to myself.

“Kris.” I can hear the pain in the hoarseness of his voice and strangely, it makes me want to comforthim.

To go running into his arms and forget any of the last six months ever happened.

But then something snaps inside of me, like a rubber band reaching its threshold. This man abandoned me. My insides should be burning with fury. There shouldn’t be this gravitational pull between us.

I’ve spent every day for the last six months pretending that Alex Henley doesn’t have any effect on me. That his name doesn’t echo through my thought process at least a hundred times a day. For so many reasons I want to let go, but the connection between Henley and I runs deeper than any ocean.

---