If Only (27 page)

“But none of that changes what happened over there, Noah. That wasn’t Beatrice and Benedick. That was you and me.”

He wavers for a moment. I can see it, his eyes lingering on mine. Nothing about that kiss was performance, but he fights it. When he opens his mouth to speak, I know I’ve lost the battle.

“Jordan.” The bitterness is gone, but my name, my first name, still distances us. “You were right.”

Right about what?

The wind howls this afternoon, and, I hear the
whoosh
of the pub door opening. Something urges me to turn, and I see Hailey stepping through the entrance. My stomach drops, but only for a second because behind her is a guy, someone I don’t recognize. Her fingers are visibly entwined in his, and as if they know I need to be hit over the head with the evidence, the stranger leans down and kisses her cheek as he pulls her scarf from her neck.

If I wanted to stop the smile, to contain my glee, I couldn’t. Happy hour starts now. When I turn back to Noah, expecting his expression to mirror mine, my heart sinks when I see his eyes darken before he breaks our stare.

“You’re, you’re not with Hailey. I thought…” Hope drips off each of my babbling words, but it flows away just as quickly when he can’t meet my eyes.

“No, we’re not.” He pauses. “We have a history, and we’re still friends, but I meant what I said about ending things before the holidays.”

Then why does he sound like he’s apologizing? There’s something I’m missing, but when the entrance echoes another
whoosh
, I have my answer.

Standing in the doorway is a girl, less familiar than she is beautiful. Long hair, as smooth and dark as chocolate, rests atop her lime-green wool coat. Her skin is delightfully pale with a natural flush to her cheeks and full lips. She is petite, and I decide before speaking to her that she is English, but we will speak any moment because she’s walking toward me, smiling sweetly and waving. But not at
me
.

You were right.

I get it now, Noah using my own words against me. Maybe none of it
is
real, not if it’s all going to end. So why not enjoy ourselves while we’re here? That was always the plan. I guess I did a good job of convincing him I was right.

Chapter Twenty-four

“Is it all right if I get pissed while I work?”

“That depends,” Daniel starts, “on whether you mean American pissed or Scottish pissed.”

I hand him a shot glass, imploring with my pathetic, sad eyes for him to fill it with something.

“Ah. I see. It’s the latter. Well, then. As long as you can do your job, I think we can make an exception for tonight.”

He laughs, putting the shot glass back where it nestled in the cradle of another. “You know it’s fine to have a pint going back here while you’re serving, but don’t for a second think Elaina hasn’t threatened to cut off my balls if I ever give you a shot again.”

I cross my arms, my lips pursing angrily.

He laughs again. “Mmm-hmmm. Again, the latter.”

“I thought we were friends, Daniel. But here you conspire with Elaina for this ridiculous mistletoe misplacement, and now you won’t let me blur my thoughts so I can forget that the guy I’ve not been able to get off my mind since September is here
not
with his ex-girlfriend but with a new girl altogether. I’m very disappointed,” I say, snagging a bottle of vodka from the well. To Daniel’s astonishment, I grab, fill, and throw back a shot before he can say
pussy lightweight
.

The burn of the liquid soothes and numbs, and when I focus back on Daniel’s face, he winces with pity, which only makes me want to numb it some more. I grab the bottle again, but this time he’s ready and intercepts before I have time to pour.

The pub fills with the dinner crowd, which includes a cackling group of local single women who started their Valentine’s Day party long before arriving here.

“Don’t,” Daniel says. “You’re better than this. What kind of a man doesn’t see how lovely you are? How adorably smart, funny, and mildly unhinged you can be?”

My stomach twists at his sincerity. It’s not that I don’t like him saying those things. It’s that I can’t explain the irrationality of what I feel for Noah, though we never really dated.

We both turn, facing out toward the patron side of the bar. Oliver, Emily, and Phillip are still in the round booth, apparently settled in for the night. I never did go back to the table, but the three of them are now joined by Noah and date girl. I don’t know her name. I don’t
want
to know her name.

“Will you at least take their table for the rest of the night so I don’t have to go over there?”

“Of course,” he says.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Elaina slams her pen down behind the bar.

“Want to know how much I use this shite pen back in the kitchen?”

She’s seething, no doubt because she’s been helping the cooks ever since the food orders started exceeding the drink orders.

I shrug.

“Nothing! I use it nothing, which means I am not taking anyone’s orders and not getting any of the tip money!”

“We pool tips on holidays, remember?” Daniel says.

Her eyes light up, all traces of her initial scowl gone.

“Shite! I forgot! Enjoy the Valentine’s Day, bitches. I’m going back to hide—I mean help in the kitchen! Call me when Duncan arrives!”

“Well, love, I guess it’s you and me,” he says, filling a pint for a waiting patron.

“I guess it is.”

Once business really gets going, Daniel takes to the tables while I stay behind the bar. When Duncan got here, Elaina snuck him into the kitchen. At least, that’s where she claims they were going. All the patrons are going nuts for her mistletoe idea. There are people snogging all over the place. As busy as I am, I find moments to sneak a glance over toward the booth. Though I have not yet seen Noah and his date abide by the sprig hanging over their table, it will happen by the night’s end. Daniel has already refilled the table’s pitcher once, and Emily and Phillip look quite cozy while Oliver seems to be keeping the table engaged in conversation.

A girl at the table next to theirs looks up to the bar, calling me over. I look for Daniel, but he is busy with other patrons. The girl’s gestures become increasingly frantic the longer I hesitate stepping out from my safe little nook. The whole booth is girls, I imagine single, and the frantic one is now waving her empty pitcher in the air.

I groan, loud and free, knowing no one can really hear me over the crescendo of voices and music.

“Can I get you a refill?”

Frantic pitcher waver hands me the empty vessel and smiles ruefully. “Thanks, love. It’s the lager that’s on special. Can you also bring us five lemon drops?”

“Sure. Be right back.”

I’m about to head back to the bar, when a small uproar forces my gaze to the table to the left. Through a mixture of laughter and clapping, I hear the unmistakable English voice that hours ago directed me to do the same thing.

“Well, I guess you’ve got to kiss now.” Oliver is smiling and taunting Noah who sits across from him. For a moment I think he’s talking about me, but Noah doesn’t know I’m standing behind him, nor does Oliver take notice of me, though I’m in plain sight for him. No. Oliver’s directive is aimed at date girl, who is standing under the fucking mistletoe.

It’s one thing for Noah to throw my own words back at me as punishment, another to stay here, where
I
work, parading another girl in front of me. But watching him now, as she leans in and brushes her lips gently against his mouth—I break.

“Fuck you, Noah.” He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t have to. He knows it’s me.

When I bring the pitcher and shots back to the table of girls, the frantic pitcher waver girl puts a wad of cash in my apron pocket and a lemon-drop shot in my hand. There are only four girls at the table, but she ordered five shots.

“You looked like you needed one of these.”

I shouldn’t. I’m working and have been a dumbass and had a shot already. But my lungs constrict, and my head pounds. I don’t want to screw up on the job, but I want so much more to be numb.

“Thanks.” I toss back the shot without regret. “I do.”

Moments ago the inhabitants of the coveted round booth stared at a—what did Daniel call me?—mildly unhinged server. Moments ago I finally believed Noah was an actor, that Benedick kissed Beatrice but Noah never kissed me. That’s all gone, now. What remains is the heat of the liquid traveling down my throat, warming my chest, clouding my thoughts, and allowing me to finally breathe.

You were right
.

My last shred of common sense stabs at the back of my mind.
She
kissed
him.
I shake my head at the thought because even if that’s the way it happened, it’s not like Noah pulled away. And even though something in me knows what I’m about to do will not dull the hurt, I can’t stop the momentum of the idea once it’s started.

Daniel hands out a tray of drinks to a nearby table. Above his head hangs one of Elaina’s brilliant little branches. As soon as he turns, tray in hand, to return to the bar, I’m standing beside him. He called me lovely, which hopefully means what I’m about to do doesn’t change that.

“Jordan. What are you doing out here? I told you I’d take care of the tables.”

“It got too busy.” My voice trembles under the bravado of the alcohol.

“Are you okay?”

I steady my resolve. “I will be,” I say and reach up to kiss him. Our lips barely touch before he pushes me away with his free hand.

“What are you doing?” His voice is pained, his eyes glassy with sadness, but my skewed logic overrides the truth.

“You’re standing under the mistletoe. See?” I stretch onto my tiptoes, one hand on his shoulder and the other reaching above me, as if I could come close to touching something that hangs at least three feet above my head. If I could show him the mistletoe, he’d understand.

Defeated, Daniel turns back toward the bar, but his movement is too sudden for my increasing inebriation and altogether ungraceful lack of tiptoe balance. I lose my footing and misjudge the placement of the table. Putting my hand down to steady myself, I grab nothing but air. My forehead greets the table’s edge on my way down. Someone calls my name, my last name, but it’s too late. My peripheral vision goes black, and then the darkness takes over completely.

The light shining through my bedroom window wakes me with a dizzying ache. I open my eyes, and the ache increases exponentially. My arm reaches for the curtain in an attempt to pull it shut, but the only thing my hand grasps is the corner of the windowsill.

“Shit.” I whimper to myself. Hangover Saturday beats Hangover Monday hands down.
What the hell did I drink last night?

Snippets of the evening creep in through the cracks of the hangover daze.

A kiss.

Mistletoe.

Another girl.

Daniel.

A hospital.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My lips are dry, cracked. I lick them as my hand moves slowly to my face, fingers walking up my right cheek to—there it is. Above my right eyebrow I feel tape, and gauze, and the sting of freshly broken skin.

The events of last night come back in a wave, everything leading to my idiot move with Daniel and my face plant on the table. But that’s all. Other than a vague recollection of an examining room, that’s where last night ends for me. How the hell did I get here?

I bite the bullet and sit up. My breath catches, the pain diminished by what I see. In the barely-there space on my floor, still in his clothes from last night, is Noah. He sleeps with a pillow and a blanket I recognize from Elaina’s room. On my desk is a glass of water and a bottle of prescription pills. My eyes focus on the familiar, my name. Next to the bottle is a post-it that says, “Next pill any time after seven a.m.” My phone, miraculously, is plugged in and charging on the desk, so I check the time: seven-seventeen. Guess my head knows what it needs. I open the bottle and pop in what I hope is a monster painkiller, washing it down with the lukewarm water that does nothing but remind me how unquenchable my thirst is going to be for several more hours. And that I have to pee.

Oh God I have to pee. I don’t think I had to go this badly a few minutes ago, but now that I’ve acknowledge the need, making it from the bed to the loo is a mission I cannot abort. I swing my feet onto the floor and use the desk to support my weight as I stand up. My knees buckle, causing my hand to slip. My phone rockets to the thinly carpeted floor with a clattering thud.

Noah’s eyes flutter open, and his brow wrinkles with worry. He’s on his feet before I have time to realize that standing is not in my best interest, even if emptying my bladder is. In seconds his arm is around my waist, and I sink into his support.

“What are you doing?”

His words drip with exhaustion. There’s no way he slept well on that floor, but he slept there. Why?

I don’t have time for niceties. “If I don’t make it to the toilet in a matter of seconds, I’m going to pee right here.”

Unexpectedly, he smiles, the first real smile he’s given me since New Year’s Day. Despite my bladder on the brink, my stomach tightens.

“Well, then. Let’s get you to a toilet.”

He pulls me slowly from the desk, and buoying me the whole way, he gets me there, slowly but, thankfully, with seconds still to spare.

“I’m going in alone,” I warn.

He nods. “I’ll be right here when you’re ready to head back, but you better call me if you need me.”

Waving him off, I trade his support for that of the wall. Not as good, but now that I’ve made it this far, my knees have started to behave.

Peeing was the easy part. Getting back up, not so much. Nothing, though, can prepare me for what I see when I come face to face with the mirror above the sink. Smudged mascara streaks across the already darkened skin under my eyes. Above the right eye a square of gauze takes up nearly half my forehead. Curious, I peel back the tape from the top edge, slowly letting the flap fall down. A gash starts at the center of my brow and then moves diagonally out toward my hairline. It’s small but must have been deep if it requires three stitches to hold it shut.