A DEAL WITH THE CAPTAIN

9. A LITTLE EMOTION

CHAPTER NINE

LISA’S POV

A LITTLE EMOTION

I should not have agreed to this. I have absolutely no idea how Cassie managed to convince me to stay behind after our shift ended, but here I am, hours later, sitting at Ray's with a half-finished cocktail in my hand when I should be at home. I should be curled beneath my blankets, freshly showered, with my phone charging beside my bed and some terrible movie playing in the background while I inevitably fall asleep halfway through it. Instead, I'm watching Cassie flirt shamelessly with some guy I'm pretty sure is in my nutrition class. I can't remember his name even if someone put a gun to my head. Honestly, I don't think I've ever actually spoken to him. He could introduce himself right now, and I'd probably forget his name before he finished the sentence. I'm terrible with names. Faces, I'm pretty good with. Names? Apparently, my brain considers them optional information.

Cassie, however, seems to be having the time of her life. She's laughing at something the guy says, twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger while he leans closer to hear her over the music. She looks completely at ease, and I can't help smiling a little. Good for her. Really. I'm happy she's having fun. Cassie has always been better at this sort of thing than me. She can walk into a room full of strangers and leave with three new friends, two phone numbers, and an invitation to someone's birthday party. I, on the other hand, would rather spend an evening alone with my laundry and a television show I've already watched three times but never finished. Watching other people enjoy themselves just makes it harder when you're busy trying to convince yourself that you're perfectly content being alone.

I take another sip of my cocktail, letting the sweetness settle on my tongue as my eyes wander around the pub. Big mistake. They land on Bill. He's sitting with the hockey guys, looking completely at ease despite the chaos surrounding him. He's leaning back in his chair, one arm casually thrown over the back while Darren talks animatedly beside him. Ryan is there too, and judging by his expression, he's probably discussing something ridiculously intellectual with someone who definitely didn't ask. The entire table looks relaxed

Then a girl sitting across from Bill catches his attention. She says something and he smiles. Something inside my chest twists painfully. Because I know that smile and I know it better than I want to. That's the smile Bill used to give me seconds before he'd kiss me and whisper that he loved me. The smile that would start small at the corner of his mouth before spreading across his entire face. The one he'd give me when I said something stupid, when I stole food from his plate, when I woke him up too early, or when we were lying in bed doing absolutely nothing and somehow having the best time. He used to look at me like I was the funniest person he'd ever met.

I remember those moments so vividly that sometimes I wonder if my brain is deliberately torturing me. I remember lying beside him at two in the morning, trying not to laugh too loudly because we'd wake the neighbors. I remember his hand resting lazily on my waist while he told me some ridiculous story. I remember thinking, with the kind of certainty only young and hopelessly in-love people can have, that this was it.

That I'd found my person. Now he's giving that same smile to someone else whose name he probably won’t remember by morning. I look away quickly, but it's too late. The memory has already lodged itself beneath my ribs. Why does this still hurt? It's been months.

Months since I told myself I was done with him for good. Months since I watched him move on with a parade of girls while I pretended I didn't care. Months have literally passed since I've had to hear people whisper about him, see pictures of him online, and occasionally run into him around campus while pretending my heart still doesn't do something stupid whenever our eyes meet. I've told myself I'm over him so many times that I've almost convinced myself it's true.

I set my glass down before I can crush it between my fingers.

"I'm going to take some air," I mutter.

Cassie looks over immediately, her eyebrows drawing together,"Lisa-"

"I'll be right back."

I'm already moving before she can say anything else. I push through the door and step outside, the cool night air immediately hitting my face. The difference is almost jarring. Inside, the pub is hot and loud, filled with music. Out here, everything is quieter. The distant sound of traffic mixes with the muffled bass coming through the walls, and for the first time in the last hour, I can actually hear myself think.

I inhale deeply. Then again before I close my eyes. What the f**k is wrong with me? Why am I still this deep in my feelings? I should be angry. I should be completely over him. I should be able to see Bill smiling at another girl and feel absolutely nothing. Instead, I'm standing outside a bar in the middle of the night, trying to breathe through a heartbreak I thought I'd already survived. I press my palms against the cold brick wall and slowly exhale.

Maybe Cassie is right. Maybe I really do need to let him go. The problem is, knowing you need to move on and actually doing it are two completely different things. Every romance novel I've ever read makes heartbreak look ridiculously simple. Girl gets dumped, eats an unreasonable amount of ice cream, cries for a few days, has a makeover, meets a ridiculously attractive stranger, and suddenly she's over her ex.

Absolute f*****g bullshit.

You can't erase heartbreak with a tub of ice cream and a bottle of liquor. Believe me, I've tried both. The last time I got drunk specifically because I wanted to forget Bill, I came dangerously close to calling him and making a fool of myself. I was sitting on my bedroom floor, crying so hard I could barely see the screen, and somehow I'd convinced myself that hearing his voice would make everything better. It took Cassie physically snatching my phone out of my hand and hiding it somewhere I couldn't reach to stop me. I spent the rest of that night crying until I fell asleep. And somehow, months later, the ache still feels just as fresh.

"Hey."

I look up at the sound of a voice and it’s Ryan. I recognize him immediately, although we've barely spoken outside the occasional interaction at Ray's. He's one of Hunter's teammates.

"Ryan," he says, almost unnecessarily, before giving me an awkward little smile.

"I know who you are."

His eyebrows lift.

"Oh." He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck, "Right."

For some reason, I find that amusing. He's tall, taller than I initially realized, with dark hair that looks like he's been running his hands through it all night. He's still wearing the same clothes from inside, although his hockey jacket is slung over one shoulder.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah."

The answer comes too quickly. I clear my throat.

"Just taking some air."

"Oh." He glances toward the door before pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He holds it up slightly, "You don't mind if I smoke?"

"Not really."

He lights it, takes a drag, and exhales toward the side so the smoke doesn't blow directly into my face.

I eye the cigarette.

"But are you sure you should be smoking?"

He looks at me.

"What?"

"Aren't you in the middle of hockey season?"

He gives me a small shrug, "I doubt one cigarette is going to destroy my lungs."

I raise an eyebrow. "That's probably what everyone says before they are in their twentieth cigarette,"

He laughs quietly,"Fair point."

He takes another drag before leaning against the wall a few feet away from me.For a moment, neither of us says anything. It's surprisingly comfortable.

"You don't seem like the type who comes out here to smoke," I say eventually.

"I'm not."

"Then why are you?"

He looks at the glowing end of the cigarette.

"Sometimes it's easier to think out here."

I glance at him.

"Think about what?"

"Everything."He gives me a sideways look."Isn't that why you're out here?"

I open my mouth and close it.Damn.Apparently, the quiet literary guy isn't as oblivious as he looks.

"Maybe," I admit.

He nods like that's enough of an answer.And strangely, I don't feel the need to explain myself. Ryan just stands beside me and lets me breathe. And somehow, that makes the night feel a little less heavy than it really is.