13
1598 Words
JORDAN
The first thing I see when I step into the bar is Felix — shoulders hunched, one hand wrapped around a half-empty glass of scotch like it’s his last bit of control. The amber catches the light, flickers across his face, and for a second, he looks older. Tired in a way that has nothing to do with the hour.
I cross the room and clasp his back, offering the other guys at the counter the easy nod of acknowledgment men use when words feel unnecessary.
It’s a Thursday night, and the place is crawling with bodies and noise. The air smells like whiskey, fried food, and weekend anticipation. A live band is setting up at the far end, their laughter loud and careless as they tune their guitars. Everyone here is waiting for the music, for the escape it promises.
Everyone except me.
I didn’t come because I missed Felix or because the scotch here is good. I came because I needed something—anything—to keep my mind from spinning where it shouldn’t. From circling back to Nadia.
I tell myself it’s just curiosity, that I only want to know how she’s doing. If she’s okay.
But the truth hums darker.
I want to know if she’s miserable.
God, I hope she’s miserable.
The bartender slides a glass toward me without being asked. I take a sip, let the burn work through my chest, and watch Felix from the corner of my eye—his blank stare, the quiet weight in it. He looks like a man standing in the ruins of something he built with his own hands.
Then, in a voice rough from silence, he says, “Nadia hates my guts now.”
That gets my attention.
He doesn’t look up when he says it, and I can tell this isn’t a complaint. It’s a confession.
I take another measured sip and ask, “Did something happen?”
“Yeah.” He exhales, slow and uneven. “I asked to meet her partner. She lost it.”
I bite back a bitter laugh. Of course she did.
“Sharon mentioned it,” I say. “I can't believe you ran to my sister with your marriage drama.”
“You weren’t around,” he says, voice tight. “I needed someone to talk to.”
“Well, maybe next time call a therapist. They’re trained for that sort of thing.”
“Jordan…”
I cut him off with a low chuckle. “You’re unbelievable, man. So full of yourself you can’t see the damage you keep leaving behind.”
On her. On me.
“She’s my wife,” he says sharply. “I still love her. And if another man’s in the picture, I’m not going to sit back and play stupid.”
You don’t need to play it, Felix. You're stupid.
“Did you apologize at least?”
He nods, defeated. “She left. Went to her mom’s. Stayed three weeks.”
My pulse spikes. Her mom’s place? Pine Grove. I know it — the quiet roads, the lake, the cottage with the peeling blue fence. I’ve driven past there too many times not to.
“You didn’t go after her?” I ask.
He glances at me, brow raised. “Are you trying to shrink me right now, Jordy?”
I smirk. “Just being your best friend before you unload all this on my sister again. Sharon’s got her own s**t to deal with.”
He exhales. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“It’s fine,” Another sip. “So where’s Nadia now?”
“She’s back home,” he says after a pause. “I went yesterday and brought her back. Her mom talked her into it.”
My hand tightens around the glass. The ice clinks softly.
Back home.
Back to him.
The band strikes the first note, the crowd cheers, and the bar comes alive. But none of it reaches me. All I hear is the low, steady pulse of regret and the sound of something inside me cracking wide open.
The noise swells as the song builds — drums, guitar, the low hum of voices singing along. Felix says something I don’t catch, maybe a joke or a thank you, but I nod anyway, set my glass down, and slip out before the next verse begins.
Outside, the air hits colder than I expect. The night smells of rain and cigarettes, the street slick with a thin sheen that mirrors the neon signs. I drag a hand down my face, exhale, and start walking with no real direction.
The laughter from inside trails after me, faint and hollow. It fades quicker than I want it to, leaving only the echo of what Felix said — she’s back home.
Back home. With him.
I’m halfway down the block when I hear my name.
“Jordy!”
I turn. Felix is a few steps behind, jogging slightly to catch up. The bar’s glow spills out behind him, the door swinging shut on a wave of laughter and music.
He stops beside me, breath visible in the cold air. “You just took off. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” I adjust my jacket, glance toward the street. “Just needed a minute. Long day.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to read what’s underneath. “Come on, man. Stay a bit. The band’s warming up for their next set. They’re actually good.”
I shake my head. “Can’t. Early start in the morning.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
He nods, slowly. “Alright.” His gaze drifts past me, toward the night stretching out in both directions. “I’ll hang around a little. Clear my head before heading home.”
Home.
To her.
I nod once. “You gonna be okay?”
“Yeah.” He forces a small smile. “A couple more drinks, some noise... I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t overdo it,” I say.
He chuckles under his breath. “You sound like my Mom.”
“Someone’s got to,” I answer, half-smiling back.
He gives me a pat on the arm — the kind men give when they don’t know what else to say — and starts heading back toward the bar. His figure fades into the light, swallowed up by the sound of the band starting another song.
I stand there watching until he’s gone. The street feels quieter now, colder somehow. I shove my hands into my pockets and start walking again, slow, toward nowhere in particular.
At least he gets to go home to her.
I don’t even get a call back.
Not a single damn word.
I watch Felix walk back toward the bar. The door swings open, light and noise spilling out for a few seconds before it shuts again. Then it’s quiet.
I stand there for a while, not really thinking about anything. Just breathing. Cars pass, the rain comes down light and steady. The street smells like wet concrete and exhaust.
After a bit, I glance toward the bar again. He’s probably inside now, another drink in hand, talking to whoever’s closest. Trying to forget for a few hours before heading home.
Home to her.
I pull my hands out of my pockets and cross the street to where I parked. The car’s cold when I get in. I start the engine, let it run for a minute. The hum settles into the silence.
I check my phone out of habit. Nothing. No missed calls. No messages.
I stare at the screen for a few seconds before setting it face down on the seat. Then I put the car in gear and pull out.
The drive’s quiet. City lights fade in and out through the windshield. I don’t turn on the radio.
After a while, it’s just the road and the same thought running circles in my head.
Felix gets to go home to her.
I can’t even get her to pick up the damn phone.
I get home and head straight for the study. It’s late, but there’s no point trying to sleep. I throw my jacket on the couch, loosen my tie, and sit at the desk.
Work keeps the noise down — for a while. I run through numbers, reply to a few emails, anything to fill the space. But it never lasts. Eventually, my head stops keeping up with my hands.
The folder sits there on the corner of the screen. Her name staring back at me like it’s been waiting.
I click it open.
Her face fills the screen — laughing, talking, looking away. Ordinary moments, but they never feel ordinary to me. I can’t even remember half of what we talked about in those pictures, but I remember how she made me feel.
I scroll through each one slowly. My chest tightens a little more with every image.
After a while, I close the laptop halfway and take it to the bedroom.
I set it on the nightstand and lie back on the bed. The glow from the screen hits the ceiling in a faint pulse. Her face looks softer in that light.
I lie there, staring at that smile, until everything else fades.
There’s no sleep. Just her.
And somewhere between one breath and the next, I stop fighting it—the ache, the thoughts, the pull of everything I shouldn’t want.
When sleep finally comes, it’s not rest. It's an escape.
- Writer
