The man at the bar

Clara's POV 

The gymnasium was so loud with sneakers shrieking against polished floors, parents on their feet, a buzzer that went off like a small explosion every few minutes. It was exactly the kind of noise I needed. Noise meant I didn't have to think.

Emma found me in the bleachers before I even spotted her, appearing at my side with two paper cups of terrible hot chocolate and the kind of look on her face that told me she was choosing, with every fibre in her, not to ask questions.

“Why the fuck won't you just leave that motherfucker and get a divorce?” Emma asked, peering at me closely.

Emma, let's just drop it okay and focus on why we're here.

*Ohh please, Clara, why do you keep punishing yourself? You're beautiful, you're smart, you've got your certificate, you fucking don't need that asshole.” 

“It's not as easy as you think, Emma. I don't want to have a broken home.”

“Ughhh, that's bullshit girl. Anyways, let's enjoy my son's game and we'll discuss more on drinks.”

******

After the final buzzer, a six-point win, Bryan's team won. Emma's husband Marcus appeared to collect their son and take him home. Bryan hugged me for a long time before he went, the top of his head pressing into my collarbone, and I held on a little longer than usual.

"You okay, Auntie Clara?" he murmured into my shoulder.

"Perfect," I told him. "You were incredible tonight."

He pulled back and looked at me with eyes that were far too perceptive for a twelve-year-old. "You sure?"

"Go celebrate with your dad," I said, turning him firmly toward Marcus. "I'm fine."

I watched him go. Then I turned to Emma. "Drinks."

She was already reaching for her coat. "Absolutely. Lead the way."

*****

 Emma ordered us both something with gin and elderflower and we slid into a corner booth and she finally, gently, looked at me.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not even a little bit," I said.

"Okay." She raised her glass. "To Bryan, then."

"To Bryan."

I noticed Bryan's coach then, not for the first time that evening, if I was being honest with myself.

He had been standing at the edge of the court with his arms folded, and when Bryan scored he didn't jump or shout. He just smiled, the smile of a man who had known all along that his player had it in him. He clapped twice, said something to Bryan as he ran past, and Bryan laughed and jogged back into position looking three inches taller.

And now he was at the bar.

"Who's the coach?" I asked Emma, keeping my voice carefully casual.

She glanced at me sideways. "Ohh, that's Cameron Tucker. He played professionally for a few years but a knee injury ended it. He's been coaching Bryan's team for two seasons now. Bryan worships him." She paused. "Why?"

"No reason." I looked back at him where he sat quietly. "He seems good with the kids."

Emma made a small sound that I chose to ignore.

"Well," she said, "speak of the devil."

I turned, damn, he was coming towards our table and smiling at Emma.

He was taller than he had seemed on the sidelines. Six foot three at least, broad across the shoulders. He was in a dark jacket over a white shirt, he looked relaxed and devastatingly handsome.

"Emma." He leaned down to press a brief kiss to her cheek. "Good game tonight. Your son is something else."

"Don't tell him that," Emma laughed. "His head is already too big for the car. Cameron, this is my best friend. Clara."

He turned to me then, and I felt it, the full weight of his attention, I felt butterflies in my belly. His eyes were dark brown, almost black in the low light of the bar, and they moved over my face with a calm, unashamed interest that sent something warm and startling sliding down my spine.

He held out his hand and I gave him mine and instead of shaking it, he turned it slightly, brought it to his lips, and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to my knuckles. His mouth was warm and his beautiful eyes stayed on mine the entire time.

"Clara," he said, as though trying out the weight of it. "Beautiful name."

I retrieved my hand before I forgot what hands were for. "Th…thank you. You were good with the kids tonight."

"Mind if I join you both for a bit?" He was already looking at me when he asked for it. 

"Please," Emma said, and slid further into the booth.

Just then Emma's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, then at the time, then at me with an expression I knew very well — the internal negotiation of a mother being summoned home versus a best friend who clearly needed not to be left alone.

"Marcus needs me," she said carefully. "Bryan's refusing to sleep without…" She stopped. "Clara, come with me. I'll drop you at yours and we can…"

"Go," I said. "I'm fine. I'm just going to finish my drink."

"I can stay, I won't bite," Cameron said. "I'll make sure she gets to her car safely. If that's okay with you," he glanced at me …."and with you."

Emma studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded, once, and began gathering her coat.

She squeezed my hand on her way out and bent to murmur in my ear: "Text me when you're in your car. And Clara ….." She pulled back and looked at me. "You're allowed to have one nice evening."

Then she was gone.

Cameron refilled my glass from the bottle Emma had ordered before she left, then leaned back against the leather and looked at me with that same unhurried attention.

"You don't have to stay," I said. "Really. I'm not going to fall apart."

"I know you're not." He tilted his head slightly. "I'm staying because I want to. There's a difference unless you want me to go."

I should have said yes. The sensible, safe, correct answer was yes. I am a married woman and I should go home and face whatever version of the evening was waiting for me there.

"No," I said instead. "Stay."

 He raised his glass to his lips and I almost licked mine.

"Tell me something true about yourself, Clara."

I looked at him. "That's an unusual opener."

"I find small talk exhausting." He smiled. "Humor me."

I thought about it for longer than I expected to. Around us the bar hummed and swelled, and the music shifted to something low and unhurried, and Cameron Tucker waited with a patience that felt like a gift.

"I used to paint," I said finally. "Watercolors, mostly. I was pretty good." I looked at my glass. "I haven't picked up a brush in almost four years."

"What happened four years ago?"

I smiled without warmth. "I got married."

The silence that followed was careful and very intense. He didn't push it, he turned his glass slowly on the table, and said, "That's a long time to go without something that's yours."

Something pressed hot and sudden behind my eyes. I blinked it back.

"Yes," I said quietly. "It is."

He looked at me for a moment in a way I was beginning to recognize as specific to him, unhurried and without agenda and then he leaned forward and said, "When's the last time you did something just because it made you happy?"