We’re supposed to meet at Taco Roberto’s—a place two blocks away—at seven. I put on a short black dress and strappy sandals, leaving my hair down and wavy. I can’t help but smile as I take the elevator down into the lobby, where I almost hope I’ll run into Dash.
I get to the restaurant first and, since we have a reservation, I’m taken to my seat, where I order two beers and chips with cheese dip. Again, I can’t help smiling, this time as I tell the waiter that I’m waiting for my boyfriend.
I came back from Southampton willing to coast and keep an open mind, but I feel surer now, more comfortable, more able to let the past live there and see what happens in the present.
Dash is running late, so I order an appetizer. When my beer is finished and I haven’t heard from him, I text under the table cloth.
‘Hey—you okay?’
Ten minutes later, I ask the staff if they might have seated him somewhere else. Forty minutes later, I pay for my food and Dash’s unclaimed beer and start walking toward our building.
There’s a deep pit in my stomach, that old, awful feeling that something terrible has happened.
‘Dash—please text. I’m worried,’ I send as I walk.
Thirty minutes later, as I sit on my couch hugging a pillow and debating knocking on his door, I get a reply. ‘Something came up. Sorry.’
Something came up. Sorry.
Just like that, it all falls down.
I’m not proud of myself. I’m aware that I have good qualities, and among those qualities are optimism and forgivingness. That’s all well and good—for normal, everyday life. When those things don’t work? When they work against me? Any time Dash Frasier is concerned?
I’m stupid.
Blind.
Who threw themselves at whom?
Oh, right—that was me who first leaned over right in front of him to grab my not-really-dropped pencil.
Who asked for that first ride home?
I accepted his apology why? It wasn’t even a good one. Why’d he leave the way he did that summer? He claimed he didn’t feel worthy. Was that the problem last night, too?
I realize, as I cry and watch The Princess Bride and cry into a bowl of ice cream, that—as cliché as this sounds—Dash is obviously some kind of commitment-phobe. Maybe it is because he doesn’t feel worthy. I don’t know. I never saw him as someone with a self-esteem issue, but maybe he has one. It’s true his parents were almost never around when he was growing up, and Mr. Frasier had some definite asshole tendencies.
I think of texting Saturday night—a split-second urge, fueled by worry about him—but I rein myself in. I have a glass of wine and curl up in my bed, looking at the city through my windows as I drift into a fitful sleep.
Sunday I am sad. Just really sad. That I thought we had something we didn’t. I allowed myself to want it so much. God, I really wanted it. Why can’t I stop wanting him?
I will, I promise myself.
I will find another guy, damnit, and he will be superior to Dash. He will want me. He will love me. He’ll want more than sex.
I’m sitting on my couch with an ice pack on my swollen eyes when my phone rings. It’s a local number: a Nashville number. I answer, thinking it’s someone from work.
“Hello…Amelia?”
“This is her.”
“Hey. This is Poppy. I know you don’t know me, but I work at The Wasted Quarter Horse.”
“Um, what?”
“It’s a bar. In Nashville.”
“Okay…”
“Right. So I work here, and every week we have this thing called Trivia Tuesdays. A group of people from Imagine entertainment always comes, and there’s this guy who comes sometimes. Hottie with glasses. His name is Dash. Do you know him?”
My stomach curls into a small, unpleasant ball as I say, “Yeah.”
“He came here Friday, sat alone, and drank a lot. I’ve never seen him drunk, but he got pretty shit-faced. Left at closing. I didn’t see him yesterday but he came back today and drank all day. Like—allllll day. I think he’s passed out now, and I don’t want to call the cops. He always seemed like a nice guy. Anyway, he left his wallet on the table and I found a sticky note with your name and phone number. Are you somebody who—”
“He’s passed out?”
“Yeah. He pretty much is. Maybe I should call the police, and they could put him—”
“No. Hold on.” I put a hand up to my forehead. “You said you’ve never seen him drink?”
“I have, I just haven’t seen him drunk.”
“Was he with other people?”
“No. And here’s the thing… He came in Friday in a shirt with stripes, and he’s still wearing it today. I just…I—”
“Stay there. Okay? Stay there with him. I’m coming. Where are you?”
I dress quickly, throw on flip-flops, and rush down to the parking garage, where I put the Quarter Horse into my GPS and pull into the line of downtown traffic. There’s not much—it’s a Sunday night—and the Quarter Horse isn’t far. I try to keep my mind quiet as I drive there. I don’t know what’s going on; I’m going to find out. I start to second-guess coming to get him, but I stop myself. Maybe this is why he doesn’t drink much. Maybe he has issues with alcohol. All I know for sure is he was wearing a striped shirt last time I saw him, and Dash is one of those guys who always showers, every single night, no matter how long and tiring our day was.
I parallel park in front of the Quarter Horse, slowing for only a moment under the awning before I take a deep breath and walk in.
I know Dash’s artwork on the back wall within a second or two of looking at it. I don’t really get the faerie link, but I know Dash painted that wall. Probably a year or two ago, based on the style. I’m blinking at the wall when a pretty, red-haired waitress says, “It’s seat yourself, but we’re closing—”
I shake my head, casting a quick glance around the bar. “I’m here to get someone.”
“Oh! Amelia from the sticky note.”
“Yes.”
“Come with me.”
I follow Poppy to the back of the room, where we hang a left into a larger room. I see Dash slumped over a table in the back corner and my throat constricts.
“He’s not completely passed out. I think with some help, you can get him to a car. Did you drive?”
I nod, wanting her to shut up, to go away, but she goes over to the table with me, watching as I gently shake his shoulder.
“Dash?”
He moans and folds an arm over his head. I notice several empty glasses on the table.
“Who kept serving him?”
“It wasn’t me,” the girl says.
“Dash?” With my hand on his thick shoulder, I slide into the booth beside him. “Hey—it’s Ammy. Dash? Can you sit up?”
To my surprise, he does. His eyes are bloodshot, sagging; they look tired as hell. What I really notice is the lack of glasses. Then I notice that his jaw is bruised and puffy.
“Am?” His eyes roll slightly.
“Hey—it’s me. C’mon. We’re going home now. Can you stand up?” I’m surprised when he blinks slowly, looks around, and starts moving toward me. I slide out of the booth, and Dash follows. I hold my arm out to him, looking in the booth as his big hand closes around my arm.
“Did he have glasses?” I ask the waitress.