Chapter 77 I'm sorry
The music tonight feels wrong.
Too loud. Too sharp. Like every bass drop is landing directly against the inside of my skull instead of blending into the usual blur of noise and bodies and flashing lights. Orphic is packed wall to wall, neon bleeding across polished counters, glasses clinking endlessly, people laughing too hard, touching too much, existing too fucking close.
And somehow, despite working here for so long, I feel completely out of place behind this bar. I grab a towel and wipe down the counter even though it’s already spotless. My hands need something to do. If I stop moving, my thoughts catch up too quickly.
I slide a gin and tonic toward a girl in a sequined dress, swipe her card, and turn to the next person without making eye contact. I’m out of the zone. I’m miles away, buried under the weight of a silence that is starting to feel permanent.
At around noon today, after finally waking up from sleep I don’t even remember falling into, I gave in and called him. The first call rang out. The second one too. By the third, my stomach had already started sinking in that slow, ugly way that made me feel stupid for even trying.
He’s busy, I’d told myself. He’s at that meeting he'd postponed. He’s sleeping...he’ll call back. But it’s nearing midnight now, and my phone hasn't vibrated once. No call back, no text. Nothing. I hate how much that silence is getting to me. I hate how badly I want my phone to light up.
It shouldn't hurt this much. We aren't anything. We’re a series of high-tension collisions. But admitting to Josie, and to myself, that I like him has turned out to be a form of emotional suicide. It’s like I’ve stripped off my armor in the middle of a battlefield and now I’m surprised that the wind is biting.
Now that the truth is out in the open, it’s become this undeniable, pulsing thing I can’t ignore. A ghost in the corner of my eye. Every thought somehow loops back to Bastian. Every quiet second gets filled with him.
A customer calls for another round and I force myself back into motion automatically, muscle memory taking over where my brain can’t. But I’m distracted enough that a few people have to repeat their orders twice.
"Hey, man! Two shots of tequila!" a guy shouts, leaning halfway over the bar to get my attention. I blink, coming back to the present. My hands move mechanically, grabbing the bottle, the salt, the lime.
I hate how much space he’s taking up in my head. Most of all, I hate that I’m standing here, surrounded by hundreds of people, feeling like I’m the only person left on the planet because one specific man hasn’t picked up his phone.
The shift ends, but I don't really finish it. I leave the bar sticky, the shakers unwashed, and the garnish trays half-full of wilting limes. I just grab my jacket and move. The drive home is quiet. No music, no podcast. Just the sound of the engine and my own thoughts chewing through me. I’m two blocks from home when a flash of silver cuts through the dark.
A car glides past me in the opposite lane....sleek and silent. My heart stops. I snap my eyes to the side mirror, then literally crane my neck, my tires screeching slightly as I drift toward the curb. It looks exactly like his. The same tinted glass, the same predatory stance. For a wild, desperate second, I want to yank the steering wheel, pull a frantic U-turn, and chase it down.
Bastian?...
I stare until the taillights vanish around a bend. My pulse is an uneven mess in my ears. I’m losing it. I’m actually losing my mind, hallucinating his car because I’m so starved for a response. I force myself to keep driving, my house coming into view. A stupid, hopeful thought takes root...Maybe it was George. Maybe he just dropped Bastian off. Maybe he’s standing on my porch right now.
But when I pull into the driveway, the space in front of the house is empty. Just Josie’s car and the quiet darkness. The disappointment is a physical weight, settling deep in my chest. I park, kill the engine, and step out into the cool night air. I turn in a full circle, scanning the street, looking for a shadow that doesn't belong. Nothing.
I walk toward the front door, my feet dragging. As I reach the porch, I slow down. Two bags are sitting by the door. I stare at them. There are always packages here. Josie gets packages delivered constantly...PR samples, skincare, random decor she swears she needs and then forgets about two days later. This should mean nothing. But suddenly my heartbeat’s loud enough to hear. My throat goes dry. I rub a damp palm against my thigh as I walk closer, then crouch down.
The first bag’s slightly open, I peek inside and my stomach flips instantly. I recognize the fabric instantly. It’s the stupid fucking suit George tried to make me wear yesterday. The one I tossed aside in the backseat.
I just stare at it for a second. Then my attention shifts sharply to the second bag. My clothes, folded neatly. My sneakers placed carefully beside them. And tucked against the side is a bottle of wine. No label. Just a plain white sticker where the branding should be. Two handwritten words stare back at me.
'I’m sorry.'
My chest tightens so suddenly I have to inhale through it. The handwriting’s precise. Clean and controlled. It screams Bastian. I just crouch there on the porch staring at the bottle like an idiot while my heart slowly starts beating harder and harder against my ribs.
This feels so painfully him. Not showing up himself, just leaving pieces behind instead. An apology disguised as expensive wine and folded clothes. Like that somehow makes any of this easier. But it works, just enough to hurt even more.