“Molly, just stop it. Please.”
“Why are you being mean to me?” she asks.
“I’m not being mean to you.”
She takes my beer and downs half of it. Her bracelets clamor against the bar as she sets the bottle back down. Without Dylan around, there is no touching my shoulder or batting her lashes. Why? There’s no audience.
“I’m not being mean to you,” I repeat, “but don’t do that. It’s not cool.”
“Don’t do what? Don’t put that girl in her place? She was making a fool out of you, Peck.”
I glare at her. “No. You know what just happened? She made a fool out of you.”
Her jaw drops.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” I ask her. “Damn it. You’re better than this, Molly. You don’t have to go up to some woman who’s done nothing to you and be a jerk.”
“First of all, I wasn’t a jerk.”
I slow blink in response.
“Second, she did do something to me.”
“What? What could she have possibly done to you?” I pause, waiting for an answer that doesn’t come. “She had the audacity to have fun with me in your presence? Is that what she did?”
“Peck …”
Navie slides me another beer. A bit of the liquid sloshes out on the bar. I’d normally grab a napkin and clean it up, but I don’t. My head hurts too bad, my body too pulled to a place outside this establishment to care.
Instead, I take a long, slow drink before turning my attention back to Molly.
“Dylan is nice. You could’ve made a friend there,” I tell her.
“I don’t want to be her friend.”
“Good, because it’s probably not going to happen now.”
“Good, because I don’t care.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “She’s not right for you.”
A chuckle passes my lips, but it’s not one of humor. It’s filled with years of frustration at a woman who refuses to see the light. Any light. Anything besides the darkness that’s surrounded her for the past twenty-six years.
“I like Dylan,” I tell Molly. “She’s funny and sweet and …”
Her face falls.
I sigh. She’s going to play this card until it can’t be played anymore. The longer I sit here, the more I want to leave. To go home. To see Dylan and make sure she’s not fucked up by this little show Molly’s put on. She’s not used to her antics and might not write them off like everyone else does.
“Molly, I need to get going.”
“Are you going to see her?”
“Well, we live together.”
A look of panic settles on her face. It’s a fear for herself, not for me. She’s never really cared about me.
This is not a revelation. I’ve known this stinging fact about her my entire life. I’ve always just been unsure that she was able to care about anyone, like maybe that part of her is broken. I’ve never blamed her for that, considering the reason behind the nights we’ve spent together over the years. Reasons I’d still go to prison for if the police hadn’t taken care of it already.
I take Molly in—the feel of her hand on my arm, the smell of her perfume dancing through the air. The pull of her gaze trying to bring me back into her world.
Usually, those things matter. They’re so familiar, and I worry that if I don’t have them, my life will be off-balance. That or someone else will be in my place and hurt her.
But tonight, things are … different.
It’s not her touch I crave, and the strength of her perfume is strangling out the remnants of Dylan’s on my shirt, and that alone annoys me. The eyes I want to be looking into—the ones I want to be checking to make sure they’re okay—aren’t whiskey colored. They’re the prettiest shade of green there ever was.
I let the rest of the alcohol flow down my throat. “Molly,” I say, motioning to Navie that I’m leaving, “have a good night, okay?”
“Peck.” My name comes out in a rush as she reaches for my arm. “I’m sorry,” she says.
She bites her bottom lip, waiting to see if I’ll cave. I always do.
“I just sort of lose my mind when I’m triggered, and it’s been a bad night,” she says. “Then I come in here and see you and her and … I just love you, you know?”
Dylan’s words on love, which have stayed with me since she said them, come barreling back. Can you really, truly love someone who doesn’t love you back? Love should be based on mutual respect. A healthy love, anyway. Molly doesn’t respect me. She’s happy to have me on the periphery, someone she uses when needed. But she doesn’t want me or love me.
And maybe, just maybe, love isn’t what I feel for her either.
“Good night, Molly,” I say again.
A streak of panic flashes across her face. I give her the best smile I can manage before I walk out. And for once, I’m walking away from her. And it feels just fine.