Conflicted

I glance at my watch. I’ve been here for hours. Since I left Lacey’s. Going home was the last thing I felt like doing, especially since Harry would probably be in mid-threesome on the kitchen counter. You laugh, but it’s happened before. Too many times.

Harry is my mother’s ex-boyfriend’s sister’s stepkid. So, not really a cousin, but the closest thing I’ve got to one. I don’t speak to Alec, mum’s ex-boyfriend, anymore. Haven’t since she died, even though he was probably more of a father to me than my own father was. He could be a really nice guy when he wanted to be. But he could also be an arsehole. I examine the scars on my forearms from the repeated cigarette burns I obtained at the hands of Alec. Yeah, he’s not exactly the kind of guy I’d want to keep in touch with. I don’t remember seeing him at Mum’s funeral, but there’s a good chance he was in jail. Or dead. Though I’m sure I’d have heard if that were the case.

Harry, though hard work sometimes, is cool. He set me up with a job and a place to live after my Nan died. He’s probably the reason my degree is in reach, so I owe him big time.

A passing waitress gathers up all six empty glasses onto her tray. She raises an eyebrow at me, but I don’t respond. I’m sick of people thinking they know better than I do what’s good for me. Especially some random waitress in a bar.

“Can I get you a coffee, Lucas?” she asks in a heavy European accent.

I snort. She knows my name. I shouldn’t be surprised, considering I’ve been in here nearly every night this week. Ever since Lace told me about that damn internship, I can’t get him out of my head.

“You can get me another scotch,” I retort, a smirk on my lips.

She hesitates, but thinks better of arguing with me. I glance down as she walks off, just as my phone lights up with a message. My heart beats faster when I see Lace’s name. It doesn’t matter how much time passes, she still makes my heart race.

Lacey: You sure you’re okay? You were a little off tonight.

Shit. I thought I’d covered my feelings well. I’m used to putting on a front, making everything look okay from the outside. I did it for years to protect my mother, and now I do it to protect myself. I reply, not wanting to drag the conversation out, because I’m not in the mood for this tonight.

Me: I’m fine. Just tired. I’m about to go to bed, l’ll speak to you tomorrow, okay?

She replies before the phone hits the table. I ignore that familiar pang of guilt I feel whenever I push her away, which is all the fucking time.

Lace: Okay. Night.

“Want to talk about it?”

I glance up from the screen. The waitress places my drink on the table in front of me and slides onto the seat opposite. I study her for a second. She’s probably my age—maybe a little older—and cute, in a sophisticated, “I don’t follow the rules” kind of way. Her short blond hair is cut into a bob, a bright pink streak peeking out on the side. Her eyes are hidden behind way too much makeup, but they’r

e a beautiful ice blue.

“Not really. If I wanted to talk I’d see a therapist,” I reply curtly. “Do you always harass your customers?” I cringe, not sure why I’m being so rude.

“Harass?” She laughs. The Rs roll off her tongue in a throaty, breathy drawl. She places her arms on the table and I study her tattoos. She has a snake wrapped around her left forearm and a rose vine happening on the other. “I didn’t realise that’s what I was doing.” Resting her hand beneath her chin, she thinks for a moment before adding: “I only harass the ones who I’m worried might leave here and drive themselves off a cliff.”

“Your concern is touching,” I mock. I act like I don’t care, but it’s kind of nice that someone cares enough to worry about me. Even if it is some random waitress I don’t even know.

“It’s more a case of not wanting your blood on my hands,” she jokes. “Isn’t assisted suicide a crime in your country?”

“Probably, but not intervening and assisting are different things. Either way, I can assure you I’m not suicidal,” I reply. I reach forward and curl my fingers around the centre of the glass, my eyes locked on hers. I grin and she rolls her eyes. I wonder where she’s from. At a guess, I’d say she’s Scandinavian.

“I’m glad to hear that. Still, it sometimes helps to talk it out.” She’s forward and not at all sorry about it. I’m not sure if that’s endearing or annoying. Or maybe both. “And don’t lie to me that there’s nothing wrong. I’ve never seen you in here before, then suddenly you’re in here every day for a week, moping into your glass.”

“Maybe I’m on vacation,” I fire back.

“Or maybe you’re angry or upset about something and crying over it alone. Which I doubt is helping.”

I laugh and run my hand through my hair, both annoyed and impressed at how much this chick is getting to me. Maybe she has a point. I’m probably not doing myself any favours keeping all this inside, but at the moment it’s better than talking about it. Talking it out makes it all the more real.

“Look, I’m sorry…” I shake my head. “I don’t even know your name—”

“Eva,” she cuts in, her bright eyes lighting up.

“Eva,” I repeat. “Look, I’m not good with this whole spilling my heart kind of thing. It’s not for me. What is for me is drinking until I can’t remember what the fuck is bothering me, so if you want to help me then keep these coming.” I pick up my glass and tip the contents down my throat, my head spinning as it burns its way down my gullet. “It would be appreciated.”

“Okay, well if you change your mind you know where to find me.” She shrugs and stands up. Before I can stop her, she has my phone in her hand.

“What are you doing?” I ask, too shocked to do anything but laugh.