7. Chapter Seven

I lean against the wall, my beer in one hand and the pool cue in the other, watching as Josh lines up his next shot. There's something funny going on in my chest, and I'm not sure I like it. Maybe it's the beer. I don't really drink very often.

Or maybe it's the company.

No, I'm gonna assume that's not it. After all, it's not like today is really going to change anything. We can't ever go back to how things were, even if something inside me seems to want to. Too much has fucking happened for that. It's been too long, and we're obviously much too different now. Right?

I mean, he's a fucking physical therapist. Who fucking helps the elderly. And I'm broke and uneducated with pretty much nothing to my name.

I'm not even good friend material, much less boyfriend material.

And fuck, I mean, he's engaged. And probably straight. Not to even mention all that shit that happened—his dad coming after me, following me out of the house with a fucking baseball bat.

Fuck.

Even if he wasn't straight, that might have been enough to scare him straight.

He's leaning over, biting at his lower lip as he lines up the cue with the cue ball. And my fucking traitorous eyes watch, fixed on his mouth, reminding me how that kiss felt. How he tasted. How soft those lips were. How good it finally felt, that flutter in my chest. Like what I'm feeling right now.

It is the company.

God, why the fuck did I even agree to this?

He takes his shot, and it seems all luck, since the cue stubs into the table right before it hits the cue ball, but he finally manages to sink one. The number nine ball rolls slowly, barely making it to the corner pocket before it tumbles in.

"Yes! Ha! You totally didn't see that one coming, did you?" He grins at me, his eyes sparkling or some shit. And god, that annoying thing in my chest happens again.

"I most certainly did not," I say, and I force a smile back as I take another swig of my beer.

His eyes linger on mine for a second longer than they really need to, and he's still grinning like an idiot. But I'm really not gonna complain. It's a sexy look. Shit.

I tear my eyes away and look back toward the front of the bar. We're still the only ones here. And that's good, I guess. Except that Sarge is eyeing me with a little too much curiosity. Fucking Sarge. I guess I should have expected that too.

I don't really get out much, especially just to hang out like this. I stop in here for a beer maybe once or twice a month, usually after a fucking long shift or if it's been a particularly decent night with tips. And though I've never really come out to anyone, I'm sure there've been plenty of rumors. There are always rumors. Small-town gossip. Shit like that. Sarge probably hears all of it.

When's Coop gonna bring a nice girl home?

A nice girl? Oh, no, honey, I don't think he swings that way.

Not that I've ever brought a nice boy home either. Dammit. Fucking Sarge is gonna have a field day with this one.

I roll my eyes at him and then turn back to Josh, who's staring at the pool table now, maybe planning his next shot. Or maybe he's thinking about something else entirely.

Like me.

And as I watch him now, I give myself permission for just a moment. I let myself drift to that time in my life when everything had been so much... better, and I can almost imagine that things are how they used to be—us as best friends, fucking inseparable. Instead of this run-down bar, we're back at his parents' old place in Garrington, out in the garage, joking around and wasting time, playing pool and drinking way too much Coke. And he beats me, because he always does. Every fucking game. But he doesn't gloat about it. He just says—with a smile and a conviction I don't really understand—that I'll beat him next time. And we play again.

I swallow hard against the tightness that's formed in my chest. It's a fucking daydream. We're not there. We're here. And we're not best friends anymore. Fuck, we're not even really friends at all.

This is just a fucking ruse. Why the fuck did I agree to it?

I clear my throat. "The number thirteen ball next. That's your easiest shot."

"Huh?" He looks up at me, and god, those eyes. All the feelings I'd tried to shove down come rushing right back. My fucking heart can't take it.

I clench my jaw and point to the table. "Number thirteen in the left corner pocket. Easy shot. Just don't hit the table with the cue this time. I don't think that trick works twice."

He laughs. "Yeah, the number thirteen ball. I think you're right," he says, and then does this thing where he reaches up to rub the back of his neck with his free hand. And the muscles in his arm flex.

My mouth suddenly feels dry.

"Just, uh"—I cough lightly and shake my head—"don't forget that your grip should be loose and relaxed. You're holding the stick too tight."

Shit. That sounded wrong.

Or maybe I'm just more on edge than I thought because it sends all the wrong messages to all the wrong body parts. Fuck. I push away from the wall and point to the table again.

"You gonna take your fucking shot or what?"

"Uh, yeah, yeah," he says. "Sorry, I was, uh, distracted I guess." His smile tightens, and he moves around the table to line up for the shot I suggested.

Dammit. I'm such an asshole sometimes. Not even friend material. Really.

"I'm gonna grab another beer. You still good with your Coke?"

"Yeah, thanks." He doesn't look up at me, and he leans over, sets himself up, and takes a perfect shot, knocking the number thirteen ball right into the pocket.

"Nice one."

He tips his head in acknowledgement but still doesn't look at me. Dammit if this just got even more awkward because of my big mouth. I turn and head over to the bar, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel his eyes on me now.

Of course Sarge is watching me too, that same stupid curious look on his face—fuck you, Sarge. He goes to pull another beer out for me, but I shake my head as I realize just how much of an asshole I really am.

We're at a fucking bar. Josh's dad is—or at least used to be—a violent alcoholic. And I just got all snippy with him while fucking waving a fucking beer around. Christ.

Sarge is giving me that other look now—that same one he gave Josh when he first came in.

I just shrug. "I've gotta drive home later, and I'm already feeling it. Better just give me a Coke too."

A minute later, I'm heading back to the pool table, my Coke in hand, and Josh is taking his next shot. I set my drink down next to his and turn back to the table just in time to see him miss and somehow set me up for what looks like the last few shots I need to win the game.

"I really remember this game being a lot easier," he says with a light laugh. "You must play a lot?"

"Eh, not too much anymore." I round the table, sink the number one ball, and then glance back up at him. He's leaning against the wall, watching the cue ball as it rolls to a stop. "I used to play more, though. Not much else to do around here. And it's free."

That makes him grin just a little, although it's still strained. Dammit.

I mean, I'm just guessing. There could be about a hundred million reasons he's quieter and tense now. Not necessarily the fact that I'm an ass. But it doesn't feel great.

"Sarge used to get on my case about it, you know." I move around the table again, lean over, and sink the number seven ball. "I'd come here and get all the free Coke I fucking wanted, play some rounds of pool, then drive people home when they'd had too much to drink."

He glances over at my Coke and then back at me, and we do that thing again, just kinda lingering there. Finally, he smiles a bit and nods.

"Sorry, man, I—"

I shake my head and wave him off. After all, I'm the asshole here. And then I take another shot, sinking the number three ball.

"Eight ball, corner pocket."

Easy shot. Game over.

***

Somehow, a couple of hours pass, and just after I finish whooping his ass in a round of darts and two more games of pool, Josh gets a text message from his fiancée with a reminder that he's supposed to be there at about six for dinner with her parents.

He frowns as he tells me this, which sort of surprises me. Any time Brenna has come up in conversation in the last two hours, he's done nothing short of gush about how wonderful she is. I'm happy for him. Really, I am.

So maybe he's just having so much fun fucking losing to me at pool that he never wants the evening to end. That's a possibility.

Josh heads up to the counter to close out the tab while I rerack the balls on the pool table and clear our glasses. There are a few other guys in the bar now, sitting along the row of barstools and watching some football game playing on the single TV Sarge has hanging on the wall. I nod a hello and set the glasses on the counter just as Josh is signing the receipt. Then I jog back over and grab our coats before we leave.

Outside the bar a few minutes later, it's like the whole last two hours of awkward all compounded. He stops just as we exit the bar and sort of stares off at what I assume is his car—a nice, shiny new sedan that no one around here would be driving. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and he looks like he really has something he wants to say.

I don't know what I'm expecting. But my heart's thudding in my chest, and my palms feel sweaty. And something really unpleasant is causing my stomach to twist in knots again.

When he still doesn't say anything after another minute or so, I clear my throat. "Look, man, it was nice to hang out. Good to see you and all." I might actually mean it. I'm not really sure. It's been pretty confusing.

"Yeah, um..." He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, just like he did earlier, only this time, I can see that he's fucking nervous as hell. "I just wanted to say, um..."

Suddenly, he looks way too much like fifteen-year-old Josh as I remember him the day after that incident at his house—much too small and unsure and full of guilt. And somehow it feels like that too. My heart's racing just like it had that day, and it's like I'm standing there again, waiting for him to say something, hopeful that despite what happened, we can still be best friends—at least when his dad isn't around, because I fucking understand not wanting that asshole's wrath.

And just like that day, my chest is so tight now I can't fucking breathe. I just know that at any moment, everything's going to fucking crash, and it'll be a repeat of the worst fucking day of my life—that day, when he'd seen me in the hallway at school and shaken his head and cursed as he'd taken off in the opposite direction. Then refused to talk to me, pretended like I didn't exist.

Fuck, that had hurt. That had hurt so much. It still fucking hurts. Feels like my heart's been ripped right out of my chest. Again.

I don't want to see whatever it is in his expression. I don't wanna live through that again. So I look away, out toward the parking lot, stuffing my hands deep into my pockets.

"Look, whatever, man. Maybe you should just get going. Don't wanna be late. Thanks for getting the tab. And good luck with the wedding and all."

I start off toward my truck, which looks like a piece of shit next to his nice new car, and I'm walking probably a little too fast, because this time, it's me who needs to get away.

"Wait, Coop, I just—please wait?"

No fucking way. Not again. I shake my head as I keep walking, and I can hear him jogging up behind me. He reaches me just as I get to my truck.

"Coop—"

I open up the door and get in and slam it closed. He's still standing there, I think, just outside the door, but I don't look. I can't. There's too much going on in my head right now.

Somehow, my hands are shaking as I pull my keys out of my pocket, and it takes me three tries to get the fucking key in the ignition. I close my eyes as I turn the key, and by some miracle, my truck starts on the first try. I hear him again, just outside my door, and there's that pleading tone in his words, just like there had been last night.

"Coop, please, I wanna say I'm sorry a-about what happened. Please, can—"

I slam my fist into the steering wheel, which fucking hurts and probably wasn't the best idea, but at this point, I'm not sure I care about much of anything. I shift the truck into reverse, and then I get the hell outta there. And this time, I don't even feel the urge to look in the rearview mirror as I go.