Page 52 of A Heart On A Sleeve

thirty

Sam

The Breakup Bender

Sometimes walking away is the hardest thing to do, especially when every bone in your body is screaming not to.

I couldn’t stay, she didn’t want me to stay.

And I refuse to stand idly by and watch her repeat the same mistakes she already made.

I guess the argument could be made that I helped her look for Irina, that I went to the cottage.

But this is different—Olive knew she was there tonight, that seeing her would decide a fate that I believe was already determined.

The thing is, while I enjoyed watching her arm paint her feelings into a vivid picture, it wasn’t ever something I truly used to my benefit.

Looking back on it, outside of sex, I often didn’t even think about her tattoo being there.

Also, as the oldest child, does she not think I’ve had my own pressures to be perfect throughout the years?

My own set of expectations to deal with?

I understand that Olive has parents who never told her she was valuable, never loved her unconditionally.

But isn’t that the exact same way she treated me in the end .

. . like being with me had stipulations?

I take the steps up to my house, my gut churning with each one.

I don’t want to be here, to step inside and confront memories of the time we shared in this place.

But I also can’t remain as Johnny Rose forever.

I have to manage my way through it. Turning my key in the lock, I push inside with one singular focus—grab a bag, a few changes of clothes, and get the fuck out.

Hustling through the house, I slide on a pair of black denim jeans, a T-shirt, my leather jacket, and some boots.

Grabbing a few extra outfits, I snag my helmet from the hook by the door and race back out.

Olive and I only spent one night here, but I can feel her everywhere.

Until I’m ready to move on, I’m avoiding this place.

Call it denial, but I know it’ll take a while for it to sink in that it’s over between us.

I sling my clothes into the saddlebag of my Harley, tug my helmet on, and peel out of the driveway.

My initial thought was to go to Xavier’s, then I remembered that Cami probably isn’t up for a wallowing houseguest. Going to Mom’s isn’t an option.

She would demand every detail, and parts of this I can’t explain to her.

So, with nowhere exactly to land—my siblings would also turn me into Mom—I take the on-ramp heading toward Golden City.

It’s directly south and larger than Mage Hollow by at least ten times. I won’t know anyone there.

I’m not much of a city guy; I prefer the solitude of my cabin (which would also remind me of her) and the tiny town I grew up in.

But I’ve been to the city on occasion for hockey, and right now anything different sounds like exactly what I need to clear my head.

It’s not a far drive, just thirty miles of cool wind whipping in my face and the rumble of my bike’s engine vibrating between my thighs.

Plenty of time to burn off some of this nervous energy and lean into drinking my feelings.

Spotting a sports bar on the first blue exit sign for Golden City, I pull off the highway and follow the arrow pointing to the left.

It’s not hard to spot, with a big neon sign glowing Sports Bar in the window.

There are several cars in the parking lot, always a good sign, so I proceed to park close to the door.

Pushing my kickstand out, I step off my bike and place my helmet on the seat.

I take a deep breath, smoothing a hand down my face, realizing I forgot to remove the fucking eyebrows.

Peeling them off and tossing them in the trash can by the door, I step inside.

It’s not fancy, which is perfect for what I need.

A brown-haired ball of energy blazes past me with a tray of food in her hand, saying, “Have a seat wherever,” before continuing to a table full of people.

Instead of choosing a booth, I do what I came to do and belly up to the wooden bar.

A few minutes pass before the same woman slinks behind it, approaching me.

“Can I get you a menu, or what are you drinking?” She places her hands flat on the bar, leaning toward me, I think to take in my tattoos. Or maybe just me in general.

“Irish whiskey, neat. No food.”

Her eyebrow pops up and I notice, objectively, how hot she is. With tattoos of her own, curves that could kill, and an adorable smile—if I wasn’t in love with someone else, I’d probably ask her out. “Who hurt you, stranger?” she asks, shifting to put her balled up fist on her hip.

“How do you know anyone did?” I’m taken aback by the question. I must look awful for it to be this obvious. “I could just be here for a drink.”

She moves to grab a rocks glass, pulling the green bottle from the shelf behind her and pouring two fingers.

Instead of placing the drink down in front of me, she runs it under her nose, taking a minute to smell it.

“I’ve been doing this far too long. I know a broken heart when I see one.

” She finally sets the glass down and slides it to me.

I can’t help but grin at her. She’s kind of funny with her sassy attitude.

“Why’d you smell my drink?” I lift it slowly, mimicking the move she did while savoring the smoky aroma.

She laughs, and it’s half-hearted at best. “Because I can’t drink on the job, and it felt like I might need to for this conversation.” She nods toward the customers out at the tables. “I’ll be back and then you’re gonna tell me what happened.”

I sip my drink, slowly at first, but once the smooth amber liquid hits my throat, I down the rest. There’s a hockey game for the Golden City Flames playing on the TVs that hang above the bar.

Shaking my head, I watch Drew Anderson float across the ice like he was made to do it.

I hate to say anything about my brother that’s less than stellar but watching Golden City's star on the ice—I don’t know if Max will ever achieve his dream.

I’m not sure he could keep up at that level, and my heart aches just thinking about his disappointment.

The bartender slides back in front of me, filling my glass and winking flirtatiously. A weird guilty sensation creeps into my belly. I should be with Olive right now, not sitting in a random bar. “So, what’s the deal, she cheat on you?”

I huff a laugh. Honestly, that would be easier to explain.

“Nope, just couldn’t choose me at the end of the day,” I say, swallowing hard, then tossing back the drink she gave me and tapping my finger to the rim for a refill.

“What’s your name? I feel like I should know who you are if I’m going to pour my heart out. ”

“Brooke, and what does that even mean? Did you give her an ultimatum or some shit?” The sassy woman refills my glass and waits for an answer. I guess I sort of did, but it’s more complicated than that.

I shrug. “Maybe, fuck if I know . . . It all happened so fast. One minute we were celebrating Halloween, and the next she was accusing me of only being with her because it’s easy.

” I know I’m making this situation sound a lot simpler than it is, but there’s only so much I can say without bringing up the Irina thing.

Brooke sticks a finger in the air and says, “Hold that thought, table eight’s food is ready.

” She rushes out from behind the bar, and I’m left with my thoughts.

I meant what I said to Olive, that I’ll love her for the rest of my life.

At thirty-two, I’ve dated, I’ve seen what’s out there, and what we have is special.

I know with my whole heart she’s my person—which makes it all that much worse that I’m not hers.

Shaking my head, I stand to go to the bathroom and realize the three drinks I’ve had are starting to hit me.

I’m not wasted, but I can feel the warm buzz sinking into my veins.

I handle my business quickly, but when I come back out, the brunette bartender is sitting in the barstool next to mine with a beer in front of her.

“Thought you couldn’t drink while you’re working,” I say, sliding back into my seat. The jukebox is playing Bon Jovi, and she's swaying a little to the beat.

Brooke takes a sip of her beer, then leans back in her seat. “Just got off, and man, am I thankful.”

“Tough night?” I raise an eyebrow at her. She seemed to be the only one running ragged around the place while the other servers stood idly.

“Yeah, my best friend was supposed to be working”—she takes another long sip of her lager—“but Alex is busy falling for a hot as fuck hockey coach and needed the night off for his game.” She nods toward the TV where the coach of the Flames is giving a postgame interview.

“No way, Monte? She’s dating Coach Montgomery?” I ask the questions a little too quickly, giving away what Bridget would refer to as the man crush I have on him. I can’t help it, he’s the best in the league.

Brooke scoffs then says, “Not you too. What the hell is wrong with everyone? I mean, the man has an ass, but it doesn’t mean you all need to kiss it.”

Her assessment makes me laugh, a roaring, belly-twisting bellow. This girl is a fucking trip. When I stop wheezing, I concede, “That sucks that you had to cover for her.”

“Nah, I’d do it any day. She desperately needed to get laid. Speaking of that . . . tell me what exactly happened with the girl, and maybe your name so I don’t keep thinking you’re a stranger.”

I take a deep breath. “My name is Sam. And, uh, basically I fell in love with her, but she questioned if it was real or not. I guess she couldn’t trust what we had, she couldn’t admit to loving me back, so I walked away.”

“That blows.” Brooke places her hand on my arm, pity marking her face.

“She’s an idiot. I mean . . . what kind of girl lets a guy that looks like you leave her bed?

” It’s not really a completely fair assessment, she doesn’t know the whole story, but I’ll give her a little credit.

At least some women aren’t afraid to hit on a man—that counts for something.

“Um, thanks, I think.” I chuckle to myself, spotting the other bartender and holding my drink up for a refill. She tops it off while giving Brooke a disapproving scowl. “I don’t think she likes you very much,” I mumble to my new friend.

“That’s just Birdie, she hates everyone, especially me.

Last month she told our boss I was flirting too obviously with the customers and that the tips weren’t fairly split because of it.

” She rolls her eyes and finishes her drink, sliding a ten across the bar.

“Can I be held responsible for being friendly when her problem is more her grumpy attitude than anything else?”

I grin at her. I appreciate that she didn’t call out that Birdie is twenty years her senior or that Brooke’s own looks could factor into it at all.

It tells me she’s a decent person. She isn’t mean-spirited, which is hard to find these days.

Although she is far more direct and fierier than Olive, she reminds me of her in a way.

She has kind eyes and—fuck—there I go thinking about Olive all over again.

I sip my drink before answering, “No, you shouldn’t be. So, what advice do you have for me, Brooke the bartender, who’s an expert on broken hearts?”

“Oh, not a single word, I’m the last person who should be giving dating advice.

I always say if you can’t get under the one you love, get on top of someone else.

” She takes the glass from my hand and swallows the remaining three quarters of it in one go.

“But since you’ve been drinking those all night and are clearly still in love with this chick, I will for once practice self-restraint and refrain from volunteering. ”

I’m stunned by her response. I wouldn’t have accepted the invitation, for the same reason she isn’t offering.

But I’m not sure what my drinking has to do with it.

“I get the me being-in-love thing, and I am with Olive. I might need you to explain the other comment though, about my drinking, just so I know.”

“Two words—whiskey dick.” Brooke stands, smiling at me and patting my shoulder.

“It was nice to meet you, Sam. You should probably call a ride share. Or there’s a hotel two blocks from here.

Take a left out of the lot. Can’t miss it when you’re walking.

” She heads toward the entrance but stops short.

“Hey, Sam . . . maybe you should try to see where she’s coming from.

If someone gave me an ultimatum my first instinct would be to tell them to take the bridge.

But after some time, some clarity, I might change my mind, and I’m thinking if this Olive is so special . . . she probably will too.”