Chapter Six

"Tell me who you are, or I’m not coming!" I protested, gripping the phone so tightly that my knuckles blanched beneath the strain. But he was already reciting an address. I snatched the pen from the nightstand and quickly scribbled it down on the back of an old magazine. The moment I finished, the call went dead.

I slowly lowered the phone and stared at the address. I knew that place. It was one of the city’s most famous watering holes, a place I had heard about countless times but rarely had any reason to visit.

Until now.

I was still staring at the address, caught in an inner dilemma, when the door opened. Grandpa peeked through the narrow opening. "Come downstairs and have breakfast," he said.

"I’ll be down soon!" I replied.

Grandpa closed the door and left.

I set aside the magazine. Sighing, I made my way downstairs. Grandpa was already waiting at the dining table. Breakfast was simple, as it always was, but sitting across from him brought a small sense of peace in me.

We ate in silence for a while, but halfway through breakfast, Grandpa looked up at me. "Don’t you have work today?"

I shook my head. "No. I won’t be going back until tomorrow."

I had been working as a supervisor at an upscale restaurant for six years now. It wasn't the kind of job people dreamed about, but it pays well.

Grandpa simply nodded and returned his attention to his breakfast.

A few moments later, I added, "I won’t be able to have lunch with you today either. I’m going back to the house to get some of my things."

Again, he only nodded. He didn't ask why I needed to collect my things. He didn't press me for answers I wasn't ready to give.

So, we continued eating in silence.

After breakfast, I kissed Grandpa goodbye and promised I would see him again this evening.

Then I left.

The drive back to the house felt strangely different this time. Perhaps it was because I knew I wasn't going home anymore. I was only going back briefly to collect my things.

When I stepped inside the house, I made a beeline straight upstairs and began gathering my things. There wasn't much I wanted to take with me. Most of what I packed were clothes and a few personal belongings. There were also several pairs of shoes I couldn't bring myself to leave behind. 

Once I had collected everything I needed, I took a long shower, letting the warm water run over me until some of the strain in my shoulder began to loosen. I changed into fresh clothes, tied my hair back, and carried my bags downstairs.

I loaded everything into my car. When I finally closed the trunk, I climbed into the driver’s seat, refusing to spare even a second to look back at the house.

Starting the engine, I finally pulled out of the driveway, knowing it would be the last time I ever came here.

I glanced at the torn piece of magazine where I had scribbled the address before turning my eyes back to the road.

I had no idea who he was or why he wanted me there, and every instinct told me that walking into a place like that without knowing what awaited me was foolish.

But I couldn’t spend the whole day drowning in questions I had no answers to.

Sometimes, the only way to find an answer was to stop being afraid of the question.

I slowed the car as I approached the street, checking the number scribbled on the torn piece of magazine once more before looking up at the buildings around me.

The bar was impossible to miss.

It stood at the corner of the street. A large sign hung above the entrance. I pulled into a parking space a short distance away and turned off the engine.

There was no reason to be nervous, I told myself. I was only here to find out what happened that night for my own sanity.

With a deep breath, I approached the imposing double doors. My fingers trembled slightly as I pushed them open, and a blast of cold air rushed over me, raising goosebumps along my arms. 

I let my eyes adjust to the dim light. 

There were only a few customers scattered around the room, quietly nursing their drinks at their tables, and I could count them on one hand.

Strangely, the quiet atmosphere put me at ease. I took a slow breath and let my gaze wander through the spacious room, wondering which of these strangers, if any, had been the reason I was asked to come.

I didn't have to look further. 

He stood behind the bar with an easy confidence, his crisp white shirt rolled neatly to his elbows. He was wiping each wine glass with careful hands before placing it back on the rack, as though he had all the time in the world. 

Perhaps sensing my presence, he suddenly looked up, and our eyes met. The weight of his gaze made me swallow nervously.

He regarded me with the same polite indifference he would have shown any other customer who walked through the door.

"Wine, champagne, or juice?" he asked.

The strength seemed to drain from my legs, and I sank onto the nearest barstool. 

"No, thank you," I managed. 

I drew a slow breath, gathering the courage to ask the question that had weighed on me ever since that night.

“What really happened that night?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached beneath the counter and brought something out. When he placed it in front of me, my breath caught.

My wallet.

I had turned my room upside down looking for it. It held my credit and debit cards, along with several important identification cards. 

I reached for it slowly then checked inside. Nothing's missing.

Before I could ask another question, he spoke again. “If you’re asking me whether something happened between us...” He let the words trail off.

My heart seemed to stop.

I slowly lifted my eyes to his, suddenly afraid of the answer.