Hannah
I CAN’T BELIEVE I was ever nervous about coming to the bar tonight, because holy moly, I’m having a blast. At the moment, I’m crammed in a booth next to Garrett, and we’re involved in a heated debate with Tucker and Simms, arguing about technology, of all things. Tucker won’t budge on his position that young kids shouldn’t be allowed to watch more than an hour of TV a day. I’m totally with him on that, but Garrett and Simms disagree, and the four of us have been bickering about it for more than twenty minutes now. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I honestly didn’t expect all these hockey players to have articulate opinions about non-hockey- related matters, but they’re a lot more insightful than I gave them credit for.
“Children need to be outside riding their bikes and catching frogs and climbing trees,” Tucker insists, waving his pint glass in the air as if to punctuate his point. “It’s not healthy for them to be cooped up indoors staring at a screen all day.”
“I agree about everything except for the frogs part,” I pipe up. “Because frogs are slimy and gross.”
The guys burst out laughing. “Sissy,” Simms teases.
“Aw, come on, Wellsy, give the frogs a chance,” Tucker protests. “Did you know that if you lick the right one you might get high?”
I stare at him in horror. “I have zero interest in licking a frog.” Simms hoots. “Not even to get the prince?”
Good-natured groaning rings out. “Nope, not even then,” I say firmly.
Tucker takes a deep swig of beer before winking at me. “How about licking something other than a frog? Or are you anti-licking altogether?”
My cheeks scorch at the innuendo, but the impish glimmer in his eyes tells me he’s not trying to be crude, so I respond with my own dose of
innuendo. “Naah, I’m pro-licking. As long as I’m licking something tasty.”
Another round of hoots breaks out, but Garrett doesn’t join in. When I glance over at him, I notice that his eyes have flared with heat.
I wonder if he’s imagining my mouth on his…nope, not going there. “Shit, someone needs to hog-tie that old dude so he stops monopolizing
the jukebox,” Tucker declares when yet another Black Sabbath song blasts through the bar.
We all turn toward the culprit—a local with a bushy red beard and the meanest scowl I’ve ever seen. The moment the karaoke machine shut down for the night, Red Beard had raced to the jukebox and shoved ten bucks worth of quarters inside it, keying in a rock playlist that has so far consisted of Black Sabbath, Black Sabbath, and more Black Sabbath. Oh, and one CCR song that Simms claimed he’d lost his virginity to.
Eventually our debate turns to hockey talk, as Simms tries to convince me that the goalie is the most important player on a hockey team, while Tucker boos him the entire time. The Black Sabbath song blessedly comes to an end, replaced by Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Tuesday’s Gone,” and as the opening strains echo through the bar, I feel Garrett stiffen beside me.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He clears his throat, then slides out of the booth and tugs me up with him. “Dance with me.”
“To this?” I’m baffled for a moment, until I remember what a huge hard-on he has for Lynyrd Skynyrd. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure this song was on that playlist he emailed me last week.
Tucker snickers from his side of the booth. “Since when do you dance, G?”
“Since right now,” Garrett mutters.
He leads me to the small area in front of the stage, which is completely empty because nobody else is dancing. Discomfort shifts inside me, but when Garrett holds out his hand, I hesitate for only a second before taking it. Hey, if he wants to dance, then we’ll dance. It’s the least I can do considering how amazing he’s been tonight.
You can say a lot of things about Garrett Graham, but he’s definitely a man of his word. He’s been glued to my side all night, guarding my drinks, waiting outside the bathroom for me, making sure I don’t get harassed by
his friends or the locals we’ve met. He’s totally had my back, and because of him, I was able to lower my guard for the first time in a very long time.
God. I can’t believe I ever thought he wasn’t a good guy.
“You know this song is like seven minutes long, right?” I point out as we step onto the dance floor.
“I know.” His tone is casual. Unaffected. But I have the strangest feeling he’s upset about something.
Garrett doesn’t plaster his body to mine or try to grind up against me. Instead, we dance the way I’ve seen my parents do, with Garrett’s hand on my hip and his other one curled around my right hand. I rest my free hand on his shoulder, and he leans in closer and presses his cheek to mine. His stubble is a teasing scratch against my face, bringing goose bumps to my bare arms. When I take a breath, his woody aftershave fills my lungs, and a rush of giddy dizziness washes over me.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. I feel hot and achy and—it’s the alcohol, I assure myself. It has to be. Because Garrett and I agreed that we’re just friends.
“Dean’s enjoying himself,” I comment, mostly because I’m desperate for a distraction from my out-of-control hormones.
Garrett follows my gaze toward the back booth, where Dean is sandwiched between two blondes who are very eagerly nibbling on his neck. “Yeah. Guess so.”
There’s a faraway look in his gray eyes. His absent tone makes it clear he’s not interested in making conversation, so I fall silent and try hard not to let his overpowering masculinity affect me.
But every time his cheek grazes my face, the goose bumps get worse. And every time his breath puffs on my jaw, a flurry of shivers skitters through me. The heat of his body sears into me, his scent surrounds me, and I’m excruciatingly aware of his warm hand clutching mine. Before I can stop myself, I rub my thumb over the center of his palm.
Garrett’s breath hitches.
Yep, it has to be the alcohol. There’s no other explanation for the sensations coursing through my body. The ache in my breasts, the tight clenching of my thighs and the strange emptiness in my core.
When the song ends, I exhale a relieved breath and take a much-needed step back.
“Thanks for the dance,” Garrett mumbles.
I might be tipsy, but I’m not drunk, and I instantly pick up on the sadness radiating from his broad chest.
“Hey,” I say in concern. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” His throat dips as he swallows. “It’s just…that song…” “What about it?”
“Brings back memories, that’s all.” He pauses for so long I don’t think he’s going to continue, but then he does. “It was my mom’s favorite song. They played it at her funeral.”
My breath catches in surprise. “Oh. Oh, Garrett, I’m sorry.” He shrugs as if he has no care in the world.
“Garrett…”
“Look, it was either dance to it, or bawl my eyes out, okay? So yeah, thanks for the dance.” He sidesteps me as I reach for his arm. “I’ve gotta take a leak. Will you be okay here for a few minutes?”
“Yeah, but—”
He stalks off before I can finish.
I watch him go, battling a wave of sorrow that constricts my throat. I’m torn as I stand there staring at his retreating back. I want to go after him and force him to talk about it.
No, I should go after him.
I square my shoulders and hurry forward—only to freeze as I come face to face with my ex-boyfriend.
“Devon!” I squeak.
“Hannah…hey.” Devon is visibly uncomfortable as our gazes lock.
It takes me a second to register that he’s not alone. A tall, pretty redhead stands beside him…and they’re holding hands.
My pulse speeds up because I haven’t seen Devon since we broke up last winter. He’s a political science major, so we’re not in any of the same classes, and our social circles don’t usually intersect. We probably wouldn’t have even met if Allie hadn’t dragged me to that concert in Boston last year. It was a small venue, just a few local bands playing, and Devon happened to be the drummer in one of the bands. We spent the whole night talking, discovered that we both went to Briar, and he ended up driving Allie and me back to campus that night.
After that, he and I were inseparable. We were together for eight months, and I was wildly and unequivocally in love with him. He told me he loved me, too, but after he dumped me, a part of me wondered if maybe he’d only been with me out of pity.
Don’t think that way.
The stern voice in my head belongs to Carole, and suddenly I long to hear it in person. Our therapy sessions ended once I left for college, and although we’ve had a few phone chats here and there, it’s not the same as sitting in that cozy leather armchair in Carole’s office, breathing in her soothing lavender scent and hearing her warm, reassuring voice. I no longer need Carole the way I used to, but right now, as I face off with Devon and his gorgeous new girlfriend, all the old insecurities come rushing back.
“How’ve you been?” he asks.
“Good. No, I’m great,” I amend hastily. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain.” The smile he gives me looks forced. “Uh…the band broke up.”
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”
He absently rubs the silver hoop in his left eyebrow, and I’m reminded of all the times I used to kiss that piercing when we were lying in bed together.
“Brad happened,” Devon admits. “You know how he was always threatening to go solo? Well, he finally decided he didn’t need us. He landed a record deal with this hot new indie label, and when they said they wanted their house band to back him, Brad didn’t fight for us.”
I’m not surprised to hear it. I always thought Brad was the most pompous asshole on the planet. Actually, he’d probably get along splendidly with Cass.
“I know it sucks, but I think you’re better off,” I tell Devon. “Brad would’ve screwed you over eventually. At least it happened now, before you signed anything, you know?”
“That’s what I keep telling him,” the redhead pipes up, then turns to Devon. “See, someone else agrees with me.”
Someone else. Is that what I am? Not Devon’s ex-girlfriend, not his friend, not even an acquaintance. I’m simply…someone else.
The way she diminishes my position in Devon’s life makes my heart squeeze painfully.
“I’m Emily, by the way,” the redhead says. “It’s nice to meet you,” I reply awkwardly.
Devon looks as awkward as I feel. “So, uh, you’ve got the winter showcase coming up, huh?”
“Yep. I’m performing a duet with Cass Donovan.” I sigh. “Which is beginning to look like a huge mistake.”
Devon nods. “Well, you always did work better alone.”
My stomach goes rigid. For some reason, it feels like he’s making a jab at me. Like he’s insinuating something. Like what he’s really saying is you have no problem getting YOURSELF off, right, Hannah? But you can’t do it with a partner, can you?
I know that’s just my insecurities talking. Devon’s not that cruel. And he tried. He tried so hard.
But insinuation or not, it still hurts.
“Anyway, it was nice to see you, but I’m here with friends, so…”
I nod toward the booth where Tucker, Simms and Logan are holed up, which brings a crease of confusion to Devon’s forehead. “Since when do you hang out with the hockey crowd?”
“I’m tutoring one of the players, and…uh, yeah, we hang out sometimes.”
“Oh. Cool. Okay, well…see you around.” “It was nice to meet you!” Emily chirps.
My throat closes up as they saunter off hand-in-hand. I swallow hard, then twirl in the opposite direction. I duck into the corridor that leads to the restroom, blinking away the hot tears that have welled up in my eyes.
God, why am I crying?
I quickly run through all the reasons why I shouldn’t be crying. Devon and I are over.
I don’t want him anymore.
I’ve been fantasizing about someone else for months. I’m going on a date with Justin Kohl this weekend.
But the reminders achieve nothing, and my eyes sting harder. Because who the fuck am I kidding? What chance do Justin and I possibly have? Even if we go out, even if we get close enough to be intimate, what happens when we have s*x? What if all the issues I had with Devon sprout up again, like some annoying rash you can’t get rid of?
What if there really is something wrong with me and I can never, ever have a normal s*x life like a normal frickin’ woman?
I blink rapidly to try to stop the flow of tears. I refuse to cry in public. I
refuse to.
“Wellsy?”
Garrett emerges from the men’s bathroom and frowns the moment he sees me. “Hey,” he says urgently, cupping my chin. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” I mumble.
“You’re lying.” His grip stays firm on my chin as he sweeps his thumbs underneath my eyes. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not crying.”
“I’m wiping away your tears right now, Wellsy. Ergo, you’re crying. Now tell me what’s wrong.” His face suddenly pales. “Oh shit, did someone harass you or something? I was only gone a few minutes. I’m so sorry—”
“No, it’s not that,” I cut in. “I promise.”
Garrett’s features relax. But only slightly. “Then why are you upset?” I choke back the lump in my throat. “I bumped into my ex out there.” “Oh.” He looks startled. “The guy you were dating last year?”
I nod weakly. “He was with his new girlfriend.” “Shit. That must have been awkward.”
“I guess.” Hostility crawls through me like an army of tiny ants. “She’s gorgeous, by the way. Like, really gorgeous.” The bitter feeling intensifies, twisting my insides and hardening my jaw. “I bet she has orgasms that last for hours and probably screams out I’m coming! when she’s in the throes of passion.”
Alarm flickers through Garrett’s eyes. “Uh. Yeah. Okay. I don’t really understand that, but okay.”
But it’s not okay. It’s not.
Why did I ever think I could be a normal college student? I’m not normal. I’m broken. I keep telling myself that the rape didn’t destroy me, but it did. A piece of shit didn’t just steal my virginity—he stole my ability to have s*x and feel pleasure like a healthy, red-blooded woman.
So how the hell can I ever have a real relationship? With Devon, with Justin, with anyone, when I can’t…
I abruptly shrug Garrett’s hands off my face. “Forget it. I’m being stupid.” Lifting my chin, I take a step toward the doorway. “Come on, I
want another drink.” “Hannah—”
“I want another drink,” I snap, and then I bulldoze past him and march all the way to the bar.
