Page 18 of Stolen Harmony

Her laugh rang out, warm and unguarded, and for a moment the weight in my chest loosened.

“She was always good at seeing things that weren't there,” I said, the words coming out rougher than I'd intended.

Anna's expression softened. “Or maybe she was good at seeing things that were there but hadn't grown yet.”

I finished my second drink and signaled for a third. The room was starting to feel warmer, the edges of my thoughts going soft in a way I welcomed. This was what I'd come here for, this blurring of sharp edges, this temporary reprieve from the weight of being myself.

Anna poured the whiskey but didn't slide the glass across immediately. “You want to talk about it?”

I looked up and met her eyes, saw genuine concern there.

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“Bullshit.” She pushed the glass toward me. “I've been tending bar for eight years, Ro. I know what running away looks like.”

I picked up the drink and held it without sipping, feeling the weight of the glass in my hand. “Maybe I'm not running away. Maybe I'm running toward.”

“Toward what?”

That was the question, wasn't it? What was I running toward in this place that held nothing but ghosts and guilt and memories that cut like broken glass? What was I hoping to find in the house where my mother had lived and loved and died while I was too proud to pick up the fucking phone?

“I don't know,” I admitted, and the honesty felt like bleeding.

Anna leaned forward, elbows on the bar, voice going gentle. “When my dad died, I spent six months driving around the country. Thought if I could just get far enough away, it would stop hurting. You know what I learned?”

I shook my head.

“Geography doesn't cure grief. It just gives you new places to be miserable.”

The words settled in my chest like stones, heavy and true. I downed the third whiskey and immediately wanted a fourth. The room was tilting slightly now, sounds becoming muffled and distant, thoughts moving like they were walking through honey.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I said, sliding off the barstool and immediately regretting the sudden movement. The floor felt less solid than it had a moment ago.

“Down the hall, last door on the left,” Anna said, but her voice sounded like it was coming from the bottom of a well.

The hallway was dimly lit, narrow and lined with black-and-white photographs of Harbor's End from decades past. Fishing boats, street scenes, faces of people long dead or long gone. I made it halfway to the bathroom before I noticed I wasn't alone.

There was someone else in the hallway, a man about my age with sandy hair and eyes that were too bright in the dim light. He was attractive in a generic way.

“Hey,” he said, and his voice was soft, careful, like he was approaching a wild animal that might bolt. “You okay?”

I should have said yes. Should have nodded and kept walking, made it to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face until the room stopped spinning. Instead, I found myself moving closer, drawn by the warmth in his eyes and the promise of touch that didn't come with questions or expectations or the weight of shared history.

“No,” I said, and the word came out like a confession.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something clean and expensive that reminded me of hotel lobbies and people who had their shit together. Close enough that I could see the concern in his expression, the way he was looking at me like I was something fragile that needed handling with care.

“What can I do?” he asked, and there was something in his voice that made my pulse quicken—not just kindness, but heat. I wanted to laugh at the absurdity.

Instead, I closed the distance between us and kissed him—hard, hungry, tasting like whiskey and regret. He made a startled sound, soft against my mouth, but he didn’t pull away. He kissed me back with the practiced gentleness that said he knew how to handle a man unraveling. His hands hovered at my sides like he was waiting for permission.

I didn’t give it. I took.

Fisting his shirt in both hands, I walked him back down the narrow hallway. The scent of citrus cleaner and old wood wrapped around us like ghosts, but I didn’t care. The only thing I could focus on was the weight of his mouth, the friction of his body under mine, the heat sparking where our hips collided.

He let out a breathless noise as I pushed him against the bathroom door, fingers curling in the collar of his coat. His mouth tasted like beer and peppermint, clean and almost innocent. It made something dark twist low in my gut. I needed to fuck that taste out of him.

I broke the kiss just long enough to shove the door open and drag him inside with me. The bathroom was barely big enough for two bodies, the mirror cracked at the corner, the single bulb overhead buzzing like it was on its last leg.