Chapter 3: The Drink
958 Words
The bar was nothing like she expected.
Not the sleek rooftop lounges Marcus preferred, or the wine bars with carefully curated playlists she used to visit with friends. This place was dim, lived-in, the kind of dive that smelled like whiskey, salt, and smoke. The lighting was low, the booths were cracked leather, and the music was an old blues record that skipped every few minutes.
Celeste hesitated at the door, one hand gripping the strap of her purse like a lifeline.
Then she saw him.
Jude Callahan hadn’t changed. And yet somehow, he had.
He stood near the back, one foot propped on the rail, a glass in hand, sleeves rolled up on his forearms. His dark hair was a little longer, jaw scruffier. The same wolfish smirk curled his lips when he spotted her.
“Red,” he said, as she approached. “Damn. You clean up too well for this place.”
“I wasn’t sure what to wear to... whatever this is.”
He raised an eyebrow. “An excruciating drink between old almost-friends?”
She laughed—short, dry, surprised at herself. “Something like that.”
He motioned toward the booth. “Sit. I already ordered you something.”
“I don’t drink whiskey.”
“You used to,” he said, sliding her the glass.
“I used to do a lot of things.”
Jude took his seat across from her, his eyes lingering. Not in a sleazy way—more like he was reading a book he’d once started and never finished.
“Still married,” he said quietly.
“Technically.”
“Open marriage. That’s what you said.”
She nodded, tracing the rim of her glass. “Marcus’s idea. I agreed.”
“But you didn’t want to.”
“No,” she admitted. “I just didn’t want to keep losing alone.”
Jude didn’t speak right away. Instead, he took a slow drink, watching her over the edge of the glass.
“I never liked him,” he said finally.
Celeste met his gaze. “That’s because you liked Leo. And Leo hated Marcus.”
“No,” he said. “I didn’t like Marcus because he treated you like a business deal he had already closed. Even back then.”
Her throat tightened.
He leaned forward slightly. “So why now? Why message me?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. What could she say?
Because she was lonely? Because he was dangerous and familiar all at once? Because she missed the version of herself that used to laugh around him?
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Maybe I just wanted to remember what it felt like to have a real conversation.”
He tilted his head. “And you thought I was the safe choice for that?”
She smiled, a small, bitter thing. “Definitely not.”
They sat in silence for a few beats. A waitress passed, refilling water. Jude never took his eyes off her.
“You want to go somewhere quieter?” he asked.
The air between them shifted.
Her heartbeat quickened, just enough to notice.
“You said you’d behave.”
“I said ‘probably.’” His grin faded. “But I mean it. Just to talk. If that’s all you want.”
And it was. Wasn’t it?
Celeste stood, swallowing the last of the whiskey. It burned down.
“Let’s go.”
They walked down the street in silence, the city glowing amber and red around them. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t even try. But his presence crackled next to her, like an exposed wire she was pretending not to notice.
Jude’s apartment was a second-story walk-up above a record store. Narrow hallway, creaking floorboards. He opened the door and stepped aside to let her in.
The place smelled like cedar and cologne and something warm. Lived-in, but clean. A half-finished canvas leaned against one wall. A guitar lay on the couch.
“You paint now?” she asked, setting her coat down.
“Sometimes.” He poured two glasses of water. “Therapist said I needed ‘constructive outlets.’”
“You go to therapy?”
“I told you,” he said, handing her a glass, “I evolved.”
They sat, not quite touching. Music played low from his speakers—older rock, something with soul.
“You and Leo,” he said after a while. “That ever...?”
Celeste blinked. “No. We were close. But never that.”
“Shame.”
She gave him a look.
He held up his hands. “Not trying anything. Just saying. He was a good guy. Still is, I think. Haven’t talked much since he deployed. Last I heard he was stationed overseas.”
A pause.
Celeste hesitated. “He’s coming back next month.”
Jude’s expression didn’t shift, but something in the air tightened.
“He knows about the ‘open’ arrangement?”
“No.”
“Will he?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “He’s Marcus’s brother. He always chooses Marcus. Even when he shouldn’t.”
Jude set down his glass. “And you? What do you choose, Celeste?”
She looked at him.
At the man who wasn’t her husband. Who wasn’t safe? Who wasn’t gentle?
But who made her feel seen?
“I don’t know yet,” she said.
Jude reached out then—not to kiss her, not to touch her skin, but to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“No pressure,” he said. “No expectations. Just… stay if you want. Or go. I won’t be mad either way.”
Celeste didn’t move.
And didn’t leave.
- Writer
