Chapter 2: Staying Out Late.
(Rory's POV)
The cold night air bit at my skin as I stood outside Jonathan's apartment building, my suitcase a silent sentinel beside me. My chest ached, not just from the betrayal I'd just witnessed but from the weight of everything I'd built up in my mind.
Every hope, every plan, every foolish dream of a warm reunion, now shattered like glass underfoot. I bit my lower lip, hard, forcing back the fresh wave of emotions clawing at my throat. The last thing I wanted was to break down here, on a city sidewalk, where strangers could see the cracks in my carefully constructed armor.
"Rory?" Mom's voice was soft, laced with surprise, but it carried that familiar warmth that always made me feel like a kid again, safe in her presence. "I thought you were staying at Jonathan's tonight—"
"Change of plans," I said, my voice sharper than I intended, filled with my effort to sound casual. "I'm coming home."
The silence on the other end was brief but heavy, like a held breath. I could almost see her, the way her brow would crease with worry, her hands fidgeting with the hem of her sweater as she tried to read between the lines of my words. "Rory, did something happen?" she asked, her tone cautious but gentle, probing without pushing.
My grip tightened around the phone, my nails digging into my palm as the image of Jonathan's shocked face flashed through my mind, his wide eyes, the way he'd shoved that woman away as if it could erase what I'd seen. Her manicured fingers in his hair, her dress hiked up just enough to twist my stomach into knots.
And the crack of my fist against his jaw, the way he'd crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. The memory played on a loop, relentlessly mocking me with every detail.
I swallowed the lump in my throat, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I'm fine, Mom," I whispered, barely audible. "I just… I'll be home soon."
Her hesitation was palpable, a quiet hum of concern through the line. "Rory, sweetheart—"
"I'm okay," I cut in, sharper this time, and ended the call before she could press further. My arm dropped to my side, the phone slipping into my pants pocket as exhaustion settled into my bones. I didn't want to talk because I knew that if I did, I would eventually end up having to explain, and I couldn't do that. Not when I could barely make sense of the storm raging inside me.
With that out of the way, I hailed a taxi, the bright yellow cab pulling up with a screech that felt too loud in the quiet of my thoughts. Slipping into the backseat, I let my head rest against the cool glass of the window, the city blurring past in streaks of yellow and red lights. The faint smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener clung to the upholstery, grounding me in a way the sterile airports and sleek trains of my time abroad never could. My mind was numb, caught somewhere between disbelief and pain, a tangled mess of questions I didn't want to face.
' Why hadn't I seen it coming? How long had Jonathan been lying to me? Had our late-night calls, our promises to pick up where we left off, meant nothing to him?'
The sharp chime of my phone snapped me out of my spiral. I fumbled for it, my breath catching as I saw the name flashing across the screen: Julian. My childhood best friend.
The one person who could read me like an open book, even across oceans and time zones. My thumb hovered over the answer button, my heart twisting with indecision. Julian would know something was wrong the second he heard my voice. He always did, those sharp, hazel eyes of his could see through my bravado like it was tissue paper.
He'd definitely ask questions, and I wasn't ready for that, not when the wound was still fresh, bleeding with every heartbeat.
I pressed the disconnect button, shoving the phone back into my coat pocket with more force than necessary. Guilt pricked at me, but I pushed it down, turning my gaze back to the city outside. The neon lights bled together, a chaotic swirl of colors against the rain-slicked streets, but one caught my eye.
A flickering red sign glowing erratically in the darkness, like a heartbeat out of rhythm. It was a bar, its name unreadable from this distance, but something about it called to me, as if it was offering me a quiet promise of escape.
"Stop here," I said suddenly, my voice firmer than I felt. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror, his brow furrowing slightly, but he pulled over without a word. I handed him a few crumpled bills, barely waiting for my change before stepping out, my luggage rolling behind me as I made my way to the bar's dimly lit entrance. The sign above the door flickered again, casting a red glow across the pavement, and I felt a strange pull, like the universe was offering me a momentary reprieve.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey, polished wood, and a faint trace of smoke that lingered like a memory. The bar was sparsely populated, a few patrons hunched over their drinks in quiet contemplation, others murmuring in low, hushed tones.
The soft sound of a jazz track played in the background, its melancholy notes weaving through the air, wrapping around me like a shroud. I ignored the curious glances from a couple of regulars as I made my way to the counter, my heels clicking against the worn wooden floor, my suitcase parked beside a barstool.
The bartender, a woman in her late forties with sharp, observant eyes and a no-nonsense air, looked up from the glass she was drying. Her gaze flickered over me, taking in my disheveled appearance, my tear-streaked cheeks, the tension in my shoulders, before settling on my face with a mix of curiosity and something similar to pity.
"What'll it be?" she asked, her voice low and gravelly, like she'd seen too many nights like this.
I sniffled, wiping at the last remnants of tears with the back of my hand as I slouched onto the barstool, the leather creaking under my weight. "Something strong," I said, my voice cracking despite my efforts to keep it steady.
She arched a brow, her hands pausing on the glass. "How strong?"
I exhaled shakily, the ache in my chest pulsing with every breath. "The strongest you have."
She studied me for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing whether I could handle it. Then, with a quiet sigh, she reached behind her, pulling a bottle of deep red grape wine from the shelf. The liquid glinted in the dim light as she poured a half glass and slid it toward me, her expression unreadable but not unkind. "This'll do the trick," she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
I barely glanced at the glass before picking it up and downing it in one swift gulp. The rich, velvety bitterness burned as it slid down my throat, settling in my stomach with a warmth that did nothing to touch the cold hollow in my chest.
I set the glass down with a soft clink, my fingers trembling as I reached for the bottle. The bartender's eyes flicked to me, but she didn't stop me as I poured another glass and drank it just as quickly, the burn sharper this time, more insistent. I welcomed it, chasing the numbness, hoping it would drown out the questions circling my mind like vultures.
"Why, Jonathan?" I murmured, the words slipping out before I could stop them, my voice thick with the sting of betrayal. My fingers tightened around the stem of the glass, anchoring me as the flood of emotions threatened to pull me under.
"Was I not pretty enough? Was I not good enough?" The questions tasted bitter, each one a shard of self-doubt I'd buried long ago, now unearthed by the image of that woman in his arms. I'd given him everything... my time, my trust, my heart. pouring myself into our relationship like it was the one thing that could anchor me through the chaos of studying abroad, of building a future I thought we'd share. And for what? To be discarded, replaced, as if I'd never mattered?
"F*CK him!"
I poured another glass, the wine sloshing slightly as my hands shook. The bartender shook her head, muttering something under her breath, probably about foolish girls and heartbreak, before moving to the far end of the counter to serve another customer. I didn't care. Let her judge me. Even if the whole world judged me. All i wanted was to forget that horrible memory, even if just for tonight.
The jazz in the background swelled, a saxophone's mournful wail cutting through the haze of my thoughts. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the counter, my gaze fixed on the empty glass as my mind drifted. I thought of Julian again, the way he'd always been there when something stressful like this would happen, a steady presence through every storm.
Recalling the summer we were twelve, when we'd snuck out to the lake behind his house, daring each other to jump into the freezing water under the moonlight. The way he'd laughed when I'd chickened out, only to jump in himself and emerge shivering, grinning like an idiot. The late-night calls during my time abroad, his voice a tether to home when everything else felt foreign. I should've answered his call. He'd know what to say, how to pull me out of this spiral. But the thought of admitting what had happened, of hearing the mockery in his voice, was more than I could bear right now.
The wine was starting to blur the edges of my thoughts, a soft haze settling over the sharp pain in my chest. I tipped the bottle again, pouring another glass, the liquid catching the light like blood.
Somewhere in the back of the bar, I felt the weight of eyes on me, lingering longer than they should have. I didn't bother looking up, didn't acknowledge it. Whoever it was, they could keep their curiosity. I wasn't here for them. I was here to drown out Jonathan's annoying voice, the image of that woman's hands on him, the life I'd thought was mine slipping through my fingers like sand.
I raised the glass to my lips, the wine's burn a familiar comfort now, and let myself sink into the numbness, the bar's dim glow wrapping around me like a cocoon. For tonight, at least, I could pretend the world outside didn't exist.