Page 17 of Stolen Harmony

I sped up, jaw tight, wanting distance from the scent and from the way it made my chest feel hollow and full at the same time. Everything in this fucking town was a land mine, every corner holding some fragment of a life I'd tried to forget.

I lifted my head and spotted the faded painted sign for Mariner’s Rest, the letters worn by salt air and time. The sight hit harder than I expected—like running into an old song you hadn’t thought about in years but still knew every word to.

My throat felt dry suddenly, and my hands had developed an itch that had nothing to do with the rain soaking through my jacket. I told myself I was just going in to get out of the weather, maybe say hello to an old friend. It was a lie, and I knew it. But lies were easier than admitting that what I really wanted was to stop feeling everything so fucking much.

The bell over the door gave a tired jingle as I stepped inside, the sound exactly the same as it had been when we were kids. The interior had been updated, exposed brick and Edison bulbs replacing the old wood paneling and fluorescent lights, but the bones of the place were unchanged. Samelong bar, same scarred wooden floors, same smell of beer and old wood and the faint citrus cleaner that never quite covered the scent of decades of spilled drinks and broken dreams.

Anna looked up from behind the bar, a rag in her hand and surprise flickering across her face. She was older, of course, her dark hair shorter and streaked with early silver, laugh lines around her eyes that hadn't been there before. But her smile was the same, bright and genuine and completely without judgment.

“Well, look what the tide dragged in.” She tossed the rag aside and leaned against the bar, grinning like she’d been expecting me. “Rowan fucking Hale. I thought I smelled trouble coming.”

I managed a half-smile that felt foreign on my face, like I was remembering how to use muscles I’d forgotten I had. “Guess it did.”

She was already reaching for a bottle before I’d even made it to the bar, pouring whiskey into a rocks glass with the practiced ease of someone who’d been doing this for years.

“On the house,” she said, sliding it across the scarred wood. “For old times’ sake.”

“Pretty sure the last time I was here, you threw me out,” I said, picking up the glass.

“That was different,” she shot back without missing a beat. “You puked on my cymbals. I don’t forgive crimes against music.”

A laugh scraped its way out of my throat. “They were out of tune anyway.”

Her grin widened. “Still got the mouth on you, huh?”

“Only when I’m sober.”

“Good thing I’m fixing that,” she said, topping me off before I’d finished the first.

I picked up the glass and stared at the amberliquid, watching the way it caught the light from the Edison bulbs overhead.

“Thanks.” I lifted the glass in a mock toast and downed it in one swallow, feeling the burn cut through the damp chill that had been clinging to me since I'd stepped off the train. The heat was immediate, spreading through my chest like wildfire, almost comforting in its familiarity.

I tapped the glass against the bar, and Anna refilled it without being asked.

“So,” she said, settling in like she had all the time in the world. “What brings you back to our little slice of paradise? Last I heard, you were conquering New York one dive bar at a time.”

“Conquering might be a strong word.” I took another sip, smaller this time, trying to make it last. “More like slowly destroying myself in front of increasingly smaller audiences.”

She laughed, but there was concern in it. “That bad, huh?”

“That bad.” I stared into my drink, watching the whiskey swirl against the sides of the glass. “Turns out the music industry doesn't give a shit about your feelings. Who knew?”

“Shocking revelation.” She wiped down a glass that was already clean. “You know, your mom used to come in here sometimes. After you left for the city.”

“Yeah?”

“She’d sit right where you’re sitting now, order a glass of wine, and talk about how proud she was of you. Said you were going to be famous someday, show all of us small-town folks what real music sounded like.”

I groaned, dragging a hand over my face. “Please tell me she didn’t tell you about the garage concert with the broken amp.”

“Oh, she did. In vivid detail. Apparently it was ‘visionary.’”

“Visionary my ass. We blew the power for half the block.”

Anna smirked. “You’re welcome, by the way. I was the onewho sweet-talked the neighbors into not calling the cops. I told them you were just passionate.”

“Guess passion sounds a lot like dying raccoons fighting in a dumpster.”