CHAPTER 2: The Stranger

He didn't look away.

Most men do. You catch their eye in a bar and they flinch, or smirk, or lift their glass like they've won something. This one just held my gaze, steady and unbothered, as if staring at a crying stranger was a perfectly reasonable way to spend his evening.

I turned back to the bar so fast my stool squeaked.

"Nope," I muttered into my vodka. "Absolutely not."

"Talking to yourself?"

The voice came from right beside me. Low. A little rough around the edges, like he hadn't used it in hours. I hadn't heard him move.

"Trying to," I said, without looking up. "It's going badly."

"Mind if I sit?"

"Yes."

"Okay." He sat anyway, leaving one empty stool between us. A polite distance. Somehow that annoyed me more.

The bartender slid a glass in front of him without being asked. Whiskey, no ice. He didn't touch it.

"You're staring again," I said.

"You're crying again."

My laugh came out wet and ugly. I dragged the napkin under my eyes. "Wow. Smooth. Does that line usually work?"

"I don't have lines." He turned the glass a quarter inch on the wood. "I just don't think you should be alone right now."

"You don't know me."

"No."

"So why do you care?"

He was quiet for a second. His jaw worked, like the honest answer was something he had to chew first. "I don't," he said. "Not how you mean. I just know what it looks like when someone's holding a building up with their bare hands."

I stared at him then. Really stared. There was a hard tiredness under his eyes, the kind sleep doesn't fix. A duffel sat by his foot, a passport peeking from the side pocket.

"You just got here," I said.

His gaze flicked down, then back up. "Is it that obvious?"

"You're wearing a suit that costs more than my rent and you smell like airplane."

Something tugged at the corner of his mouth. It wasn't quite a smile. "That's fair."

"So what are you running from?"

"Who says I'm running?"

"Nobody sits in a dive bar with a full drink and a passport unless they're dodging something."

That got a real breath out of him, half a laugh. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Family," he said finally. "I'm supposed to be somewhere else right now. Facing people I'd rather not face."

"Sounds fun."

"Riveting." He finally drank and winced. "Your turn. Running from someone?"

The question hit somewhere soft. My fingers tightened around the glass until my knuckles paled.

"A man," I said. The smile I gave him was bitter enough to taste.

"Then you're in the right place."

"Is that what this place is for?"

"It's what every bar is for."

I snorted. He didn't push, didn't ask who or what he'd done. I noticed that. Eric would've demanded every detail, then made it about himself.

I pressed my lips together. "You're not going to ask?"

"Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Then no."

Just like that. The tension in my shoulders slipped down half an inch.

We drank. Not talking for a while, and it wasn't awkward, which was strange. My phone lit up on the bar, ERIC, and I flipped it face down so hard the glass rattled.

The stranger's eyes tracked it. Said nothing.

"Sorry," I mumbled.

"Don't be."

"He wants to explain."

"Do you want to listen?"

"God, no." My throat closed. "He said I'd come around. Like I was a dog that always comes back to the porch."

His hand went still on the glass. When he spoke, the softness had gone out of his voice. "He's an idiot."

"You haven't even met him."

"I don't need to."

Something fluttered under my ribs. I told it to stop.

"What about you?" I said quickly. "Whose porch are you avoiding?"

"My father's."

"Bad?"

"Complicated." He turned the glass again. Quarter inch, quarter inch. A nervous habit he probably didn't know he had. "He's sick. He wants me home. I haven't been home in years, and I'm not sure I know how to walk in there without wanting to break something."

"Then don't go tonight."

"That's the plan."

"Good plan." I lifted my glass. "Terrible person, though. Avoiding your dying father in a bar."

"Terrible," he agreed. "Cheers."

Our glasses clinked. The sound was small and bright, and for the first time all night my chest didn't feel like it was full of broken glass.

An hour passed. Maybe two. The vodka warmed my limbs and loosened my tongue, and somewhere along the way the empty stool between us stopped being empty. He'd shifted closer. Or I had. His knee was an inch from mine.

He told me nothing. Not his name, not his job. I gave him nothing back either. We traded feelings instead of facts, and it was easier than I'd have believed. Like confessing to a stranger on a train.

"Can I tell you something stupid?" I said.

"Please."

"I really thought he was going to propose."

His head turned. He watched me, unhurried. "That's not stupid."

"I was going to say yes." My voice cracked and I pushed through it. "Two years. I waited for him. I mean, actually waited. I'd never..."

I stopped. Heat rushed up my neck. God, what was I doing?

"Never what?" he asked quietly.

I could've lied. Dodged. Made a joke. But the truth was already sitting on my tongue, heavy and warm.

"Slept with anyone," I said, barely a whisper. "Ever. I was saving it. For something that meant something. And he was upstairs in his bed with a woman who's probably wearing my ring right now."

Silence.

I made myself look at him. Braced for the smirk. For the flinch.

He wasn't smirking. His lips had parted slightly, like I'd said something in another language and he was still translating.

"Ever?" he said.

"Don't." My face burned. "Don't say it like I'm a museum piece."

"I'm not." He shook his head slowly. "I'm just... I didn't expect it. I'm sorry. That's not a reaction, that's just surprise."

"Surprise is a reaction."

"Fine. Then I'm surprised, and I think he's a bigger idiot than I thought."

A shaky laugh escaped me. My eyes stung again but this time I didn't hate it.

"You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true."

I don't know who moved first. Or maybe I do. Maybe I've always known it was me.

His hand rested on the bar between us, long fingers, a faint scar across one knuckle. I looked at it. Then at his mouth. Then at his eyes, which had gone dark and careful, watching me like he was waiting for me to change my mind.

"I don't want to think tonight," I said.

"Then don't."

"I don't want to be her."

"Who?"

"Me."

Something flickered across his face. Understanding, I thought. Or recognition.

I leaned in and kissed him.

It was short. Clumsy. My lips tasted of vodka and salt. He went rigid for a heartbeat, and I felt his breath catch against my mouth, and then he drew back. Just an inch. His forehead nearly touched mine.

"Wait," he said, hoarse. "Wait. Are you sure?"

My pulse hammered in my ears. I could hear how loud my own yes was going to be.

"Are you asking because you're a gentleman?" I whispered. "Or because you don't want me?"

His laugh was shaky. "I'm asking because you'll remember this tomorrow."

"I know."

"Then let me be sure." His thumb brushed the side of my hand, barely there. "Tell me to stop and I will."

I should've told him. Any sensible woman would have. But sensible had walked out of that apartment with a straight spine, and it had brought me here.

"Don't stop," I said.

He held my gaze for one long second. Then he pulled a few bills from his wallet, left them under his untouched glass, and stood. He held out his hand. Not demanding. Just open.

I took it.

Neither of us said where we were going. We didn't have to. The cold night air hit my face outside the door, and his fingers laced through mine, warm and certain.

For the first time that night, I wasn't thinking about Eric.

I was thinking about the stranger beside me.