“After one drink, you’ll be thanking me,” she jokes back.
“You should really quit your day job and do self-empowerment classes, you know?” I tease and let the people around me pass me by quickly as I take my time heading to the bar.
“I’d rather keep mine, thank you very much.” As she answers, I can practically hear the smile in her voice. “And as for you, this job and that apartment – you earned those. Be proud.”
The anxiety is still there deep inside of me as I think about my cardboard boxes sitting in the middle of the gorgeous hand-tufted rug in the living room. “It’s just a lot.”
“Well, you’re worth a lot… and New York is ‘a lot.’ You know that.” I can hear myself swallow as I nod, even though she can’t see.
“I’m going to get a drink.”
Before I can tell her I’ll call her when I get back to my new home, she’s already commanding me to do just that in her motherly voice. I’m telling her I love her back as I walk into the place frowning down at my attire, but too tired from the plane ride and stressed from the move to give a fuck.
It takes about two whole seconds for me to realize The Tipsy Room is going to be my go-to place for the rest of eternity. Black chandeliers hang from the ceilings, which are at least ten feet high, and the lights are dimmed to the point where it feels cozy, but bright enough to see all the fine details in the rugged wood tables. Cast iron chairs and barstools with a slick granite bar top give the place a sense of coldness. And a white quartz fireplace in the very center of the space with ottomans surrounding it give the décor the warmth it needs.
Whoever designed this place has my entire approval. The music is soft, yet upbeat. And it smells like a cool drink on a seaside beach. I’m in love with this place.
New York may hit me like a brick in my stomach every time I come here, but I’m calling tonight a win already.
Climbing onto a barstool at the very back, I immediately grab a thick paper menu and listen to the quiet chatter from the half-full bar and a roar of laughter from somewhere on my left.
As my eyes spot the very drink I know I’d love to order day in and day out – a combination of grapefruit and tequila – my heart skips a beat. Or at least I think it’s skipped one, but then it doesn’t beat at all.
Not until the laughter dies, and I tell myself there’s no fucking way it’s him. My face is instantly hot and my hands are clammy. I keep repeating to myself that I’m a fool, it’s not him, it only sounded like the memories of my past because I’m hung up on Madox.
But then I hear it again, the familiar roughness of it. The deep cadence of his chuckle somehow standing out in the bar. Even though my body is instinctively still, like a child hiding in the closet, I glance to my left and see a room off the side of the bar. Judging by the size, it’s probably for parties.
I can’t see him. No.
But my throat gets tight as I see some friends who I used to love. His friends really, but once upon a time they were my friends. Trish’s brother, Brett, is within view. His sweet but sarcastic voice is carrying on with some story as he runs his hand through his shaggy hair.
I can’t make out what he’s saying; everything turns to white noise except for the loud ringing in my ears telling me to get the fuck out. The barstool nearly tips over as I push away from the counter, ignoring a bartender who happens to walk up the second I’m tumbling out of the high seat.
Don’t look.
I can barely fucking breathe. With my head down and my cheeks hot, my legs move numbly. All the memories come flooding back at once, but I’m distracted with the anxiousness churning in my gut.
What are the fucking odds?
Shit, shit, shit. I’m going on nearly twenty-four hours without sleep and dressed in a rumpled hoodie with day-old mascara.
I could kill someone right now. Trisha. I mouth her name like a curse. She set me up! There’s no way she didn’t know Brett was here. I tell myself it was only Brett she knew about and not Madox. She wouldn’t do that to me. There’s no way she could have known he was here.
Unless Brett told her. Unless she wanted me to get back together with Madox. Which isn’t at all like her. Staring blankly at the bottles of wine on the back wall, I know there’s no way Trisha would have sent me here knowing Madox was here; she knows how much it all still hurts to think about.