“You weren’t going home with him anyway.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you’re leaving with a full beer still on the counter and half a game left to watch.”
She shifts the two receipt slips on the bar top. “He left me his number,” she smugly adds, nodding towards the receipt on the bar. “And the night is still young.”
Without thinking, I grab it from the bar and rip it into pieces that would be too small for her to put back together. And I’m not quite sure why I did that other than I like pissing her off.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Doing you a favor, Stevie. You can thank me later.”
“Fuck you, Zanders.”
I pause for a moment as I study Stevie’s face, noting the real anger spewing off her.
“Your little bartender boyfriend was grabbing that waitress’s ass”—I nod towards a blonde server at a table—“every time they passed in and out of the kitchen. Then when she wasn’t looking, he was making out with that waitress”—I motion towards a different one, this one with brown hair—“by the bathroom. Now I’m not opposed to multiple women, but at least I make sure they know about each other. This guy is a tool.”
“You’re lying.”
“I don’t lie.”
Stevie’s eyes flicker with disappointment before regaining their faux confidence. “Well, maybe I don’t care,” she challenges.
“You care.”
“You’re an ass.”
“We’ve been over this, Stevie. I already know.”
I take a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet, placing it down for her tip. This guy shouldn’t be getting a cent from her or me, but I especially don’t want her over-tipping when he was being a sleaze all night.
“I have my own money.”
“Good for you.” I condescendingly pat her shoulder. “Okay, now spill.”
“Spill what?”
“Why are you following me? Are you in love with me already, Stevie? Slow your roll, sweetheart. It’s only been one day.”
She lets out an arrogant laugh. “You’re in love with yourself.”
“Someone’s gotta be.” The statement holds way more truth than she realizes.
Her eyes flicker back to the television screen above the bar. “Are you a Devils fan?”
She ignores me, keeping her attention locked as the time clock winds down into halftime.
“Huh?” she absentmindedly asks as the Devils’ point guard takes a shot at the buzzer but misses, causing the game to go into halftime tied. “Dammit.”
“You’re a Devils fan,” I repeat, this time as a statement and less as a question. But I don’t like that she ignored me the first time. I’m not used to that.
“Yeah. Something like that.” She swings her purse strap over her shoulder and across her chest, separating her tits. My eyes fall right to them. Her body is banging, full of curves. She should show it off, not cover it up with baggy and oversized clothes that seem like they’ve seen better days.
“Well, now that you’ve successfully cockblocked me,” Stevie begins. “Can I go?”
My attention darts back to the raven-hair waitress, her eyes lingering on me as she marries two ketchup bottles. She’s trying to be seductive about it, but it’s kind of weird the way she’s smirking at me from across the room as she hits the bottom of the ketchup bottle with the heel of her hand.
My phone dings in my pocket, breaking my uncomfortable stare, and I find a message from my older sister, Lindsey.
Lindsey: Hey, Ev. Not to put a damper on your first road game of the season, but Mom got ahold of my phone number. I don’t know how, but she’s called three times already trying to get ahold of you. Long story short, don’t answer any unknown callers. Miss you, little brother.
My lips fall open as I continue to stare at my phone screen.
I haven’t heard a peep about my mom in two years since she showed up at one of my games and begged me for money. To which I, of course, said no. She had gotten ahold of my phone number, called nonstop, and finally showed up in person. I can’t keep my whereabouts private, my game schedule is plastered online, but she’s one of the reasons I’m so selective about people having my phone number. I’ve had to change it more times than I can count.
“Are you okay?” a soft voice asks.
“Huh?” I look up, finding Stevie’s blue-green eyes gentle and concerned.
My confidence has faltered at the moment, and there are only a select few I break down my walls in front of. The flight attendant with an attitude is not one of them.
“I’m fine,” I snap, feeling seen.
“Damn, never mind.”
The bar suddenly seems overcrowded and hot. I’m not claustrophobic, but it currently feels like I might be. I close my empty fist. My palms are clammy as a rush of warm air hits my cheeks, my vision slightly blurring. I attempt to take a breath, but there’s no air in the room.
Fuck. I haven’t had one of these in years.
Without a word or a second thought, I bolt out the front door of the bar.
Once outside, I glance in both directions, looking for some space. The streets are crowded with people, most of which have turned their attention to me. Usually, I live for the stares, the cheers, the recognition. But tonight, I need to get as far away from anyone with eyes as I can.
Jogging across the street, I instinctively turn down a few blocks, having no idea where I’m going, but relying on my panic-stricken body to find a quiet space.
A park comes into view, but people are taking up all the benches in sight. I find a large tree with a big enough trunk to hide behind. Without thinking twice, I sink my ass to the grass, my expensive-as-shit Armani pants instantly cooling from the wet ground.
Inhale. Exhale. Anchor yourself.
Where am I? Denver. A park.
What color are the benches? Blue.
Why am I feeling this way? Because my mother is a gold-digger who left her children and husband for someone with more money. Because my mother is selfish as fuck, and now she wants my money. She doesn’t want me. She doesn’t love me. She just wants my money.
Rage seeps in again. The only thing that brings on panic attacks for me is blind rage, but I can’t let it control me. The near-decade of therapy has taught me that. I can’t let the panic win. I can’t let my mother win.
Why am I feeling this way? Because she doesn’t love me. Because she chose money over my sister and me. But it doesn’t matter because I love myself.
That’s what therapy has taught me—to love myself. And I do. Unapologetically and without question, I love myself.
Someone’s got to.
Inhale. Exhale.
The panic is gone. I no longer feel hot and flustered, unable to breathe. I fought it off. I didn’t let it get me. I stopped it before it really started.
Letting out a deep breath, I drape my elbows on my knees and drop my head between my shoulders.
I completely bailed on my tab at the bar, but Rio can cover me. I’ll get him back next time. Pulling out my phone without re-reading my sister’s text, I respond.