Standing in the snow that's just shy of spilling over into my boots, I stare up at my mom's house. Much like it is, I'm frozen in time, looking at the home I lived in for 18 years before running out of it as fast as I possibly could.
Memories play out in my mind like they're happening right in front of me in the present. Helping my mom with yard work in the summer. Taking pictures outside for prom with heavy makeup covering my bruises. Mom screaming at my ex Charlie while I cried behind her in the doorway. Me screaming at my ex Charlie while he grabbed my arm so hard I cried out in pain, before he proceeded to shove me down onto the ground and continue his verbal barrage standing over me, spit flying from his mouth.
That one broke my arm.
As the reel continues on a loop inside my skull, I can't bring myself to move. I'm stuck, tears spilling down my face as I look up at my childhood home that always lacked a father, and provided shelter to a woman who gave up everything so I could live the life she wanted me to have. She tried her absolute damnedest to keep me out of harm's way, but I managed to find the worst kind of trouble with the most vile person I've ever known.
After what might've been five minutes or thirty, I finally turn away to head down the street, wheeling my suitcase behind me. Tears stream down my face as I march along on the crunchy snow covering the sidewalk, my suitcase bumping around erratically over the uneven, rough terrain. I can't tell if I'm shaking from the cold, my emotions spiraling out of control, or both.
My feet are carrying me to where I need to go. It only takes a few blocks of trudging through the snow before I push into the stale, overly warm air of the same hole-in-the-wall bar I used to underage drink in. Stepping inside feels like traveling back in time.
Meathead Moe's.
Next to nothing has changed in over a decade. It has the same dim, yellow lighting, the same ripped stools at the bar, the same farm, sports and antique nonsense decor covering every inch of every wall. The only upgrades I can see is the shitty old jukebox in the corner being replaced by a new digital version, a flatscreen TV with sports highlights on it, and as I scan the taps, some new beer selections.
There are only a handful of people inside, and as I wipe underneath my eyes with the back of my hand, a few of them turn to look, raise their brows, and then turn back, unbothered, to their pitchers of beer. It's still early in the evening, not that I expect this place to become a real barn burner at any point, but I'm glad there isn't anyone here under the age of 50—yet.
After stomping off my boots and taking a few sniffling breaths in order to come across as the tiniest bit composed, I walk over to the bar and slide into a stool, placing my suitcase right by my feet. Folding my arms across the uncomfortably sticky bartop, I tap it a few times to summon the attention of the bartender who I unsurprisingly don't recognize.
As the blonde-haired man who looks close in age to me walks over, I try to place him in my mind among my memories from all those years ago. With a squint through my newly puffy eyes, I continue appraising him in an effort to fight off the loop of awful memories playing nonstop in my mind.
"What happened to Moe?"
Leaning against the bar with his hands spread out on either side of himself, he quirks an eyebrow as he takes me in.
"Moe retired bout' ten years ago. He brought me on as a manager round' the same time." He gives me a squint as he tries to place me in his memory. "You from round' here?"
"Unfortunately, yes. Except I left 10 years ago and never really intended on coming back." I can see him nod slowly out of my peripheral as I stare down at my chilled hands on the bartop. Another beat of silence passes, and I can tell he's not getting ready to press me on why the hell I came back now. And thank fuck for that.
"I'll take a beer, whatever's good on tap. Just no IPA's, please."
"Sure thing." He gives the bar a pat before turning around to the taps and filling a glass. I let the annoying drone of country music coming through the speakers fill my brain, and when he sets my beer down in front of me, I waste no time raising it to my lips for a long, deep sip.
It isn't too long before I'm summoning another beer, and with my arms folded in front of me, I can't help but laugh to myself under my breath at the sheer fucking audacity of the current situation I find myself in.
Me, sitting in a bar where I used to flash a fake ID, unable to enter my dead mom's house because I'm too afraid to face what's waiting for me inside.
When beer two comes, I hope and pray that by the time I reach the bottom of it, every overly sharp, painful thought in my mind gets duller. It's a completely asinine way to chase relief, but given where I am and what I'm going to have to bring myself to do while I'm here, I'll try and seek escape any way I possibly fucking can.
****
I texted Jake 10 minutes ago, after I finished beer number four on a very empty stomach.
so, spiler alert: i never wnt inside
where are u chirpy?
dive bar moe's. cme met me?
be there asap 🫡
I'm pleasantly buzzed, and while I still haven't been able to completely drown out the country music or every last one of my unpleasant memories, I know having Jake here will help me get that much closer to feeling more normal—especially when I feel like a complete and total alien sitting in this bar with a bunch of old men and their wives.
I hear the jingle of the bell over the door, and turn my head to look over my shoulder to see what might very well might be the best thing I've ever had the pleasure to witness. My jaw hinges open as I take in the full force that is Jake, from head to toe and back again.
He looks freshly showered, his dark brown hair slicked back so it's tucked neatly behind his ears. A black bomber jacket covers his torso, unzipped at the front to reveal a plain white shirt underneath. The gleam of his usual watch at this wrist catches my eye as he stomps snow off of his brown boots, which pair perfectly with his dark-wash jeans.
Holy mother fuck does he fucking incredible.
As he finishes wiping his shoes on the rug, he looks up, and it takes no time at all for his eyes to meet mine. A huge smile spreads across his face as he starts to saunter over to me, his hands rubbing together to create heat. I can't help but eagerly slide myself off of the stool, pretty gracefully considering all the beer sloshing around in my stomach, and fling my arms up and around his broad shoulders.
"God you smell stupidly good," I murmur into his neck, taking in and loving every second my face is pressed into the warmth of him.
He gives me a squeeze as his arms wrap around my waist, gently swaying me from side to side as he nuzzles his face next to mine.
"I gotta clean up to look nice when my girl calls me up for a date at a dive bar," he gives my cheek a kiss before pulling back to smile down at me. "And you smell like you've enjoyed quite a few beers there, Chirpy."
Moving to rest my hands on his chest, I reach up on my tiptoes and give him a lingering kiss on the lips.
"Mmm, and you taste like a beer, too." He gives my ass a playful little squeeze, which has me giggling into his bearded cheek.
"You better start catching up there, Bryers." He offers me his hand to help get me back onto my stool, and then slides down next to me, waving the bartender over in the process.
"I'll have what she's having." Not-Moe gives Jake a curious look, like he knows he looks familiar but can't figure out why.
"Comin' right up."
It doesn't take long before Jake's got his beer in hand, and as not-Moe drops it off, he gives Jake one last stare down before muttering to himself and walking back down towards the other patrons.
I've got my temple propped on my fist as beer number five sits in front of me, completely full and daring me to go ahead and take a sip. I know I should order food, try and eat something, but it's easier to keep the drinks coming and not think too hard about what I should be doing for myself.
My other hand drums the sticky counter, and while my eyes are absentmindedly staring at the mirrored shelves of booze, I can feel Jake's gaze on me. I sigh, moving my fingers faster as the rush of inviting him here fades and competes with the dangerous mix of alcohol and my still-swirling thoughts.
"What happened at your mom's place?" His voice is soft and slow—there's nothing pressing in it, nothing demanding an answer. Just an honest question about how I came to be here instead of there.
My foot starts bouncing up and down, moving my knee in time with my fingers that just won't stop tapping the countertop. Whether it's the beers, the stranger than hell setting of being in my hometown with Jake, or the sound of the country music driving me to the brink of my own sanity, I find myself sighing and giving him an honest response.
"I couldn't do it. I couldn't go inside." I pause, taking a sip of beer and keeping my one hand around the glass to resist the temptation to keep fidgeting them anxiously on the bar. "I stood there, and I kept seeing things."
"What did you see?" Nothing in his tone changes. He's not surprised, not shocked, not even concerned. He's just curious.
"I saw a lot of things. Me helping my mom rake leaves from the billion oak trees in our yard. My mom and I shoveling after getting dumped on with snow." As I stare at the bottles of top-shelf booze no one has touched in this dive bar for ages, I consider trying to keep the floodgates somewhat shut. I consider stopping there, and not telling Jake the rest.
But he's here, and he's listening. And the weight of carrying the full load of what happened here all these years has taken its toll. My mom has taken those memories to her grave, and I'm left here, to live on with the burden of them for as long as this life allows.
Jake's listening intently, and I can still feel his eyes on my face as I stare ahead aimlessly. Blinking against the sudden welling of tears in my eyes, I try to take a few even breaths before speaking words I've never said out loud to anyone before—not even Felicia.
"I saw when Charlie shoved me down to the ground so hard he broke my arm. When he stood over me and yelled that I'd never become anything, never do anything worthwhile. That my dreams were pointless, and I'd never leave this town."
Jake's stunned silence is palpable as I take another swig of beer. An odd mix of relief and fear courses through me at the same time. The art of letting someone in is new territory for me, and while it feels good, this could be where he draws the line and heads home.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his jaw flex as he clenches his teeth together so hard it must hurt. The whites of his knuckles are showing as he grips his beer, and when he finally turns to look at me, I can't help but meet his gaze.
"Which arm was it?"
Giving my right arm a few shakes, the one that just so happens to be touching his own arm, I feign pain and scrunch up my face.
"It's like an old war wound, it hurts when it's gonna rain." He gives me a small smile at my half-assed attempt at trying to make light of something fucking awful before gingerly reaching out and taking my right elbow in his hand. He bends down and gives the top of my shoulder a tender kiss.
Lingering close by my side, he places his hand on my thigh as he reaches for his beer and asks, "Does the massive piece of fucking shit still live here?"
I can't help but huff a sad laugh as I get my glass to just about halfway gone.
"I have no clue, but if I were to make an educated guess, I'd say signs point to yes, unfortunately. Let's just hope we have the good fortune of never seeing his ugly subhuman mug while we're here."
With another long sip of beer, I hear Jake mumble something indiscernible into his own glass before he drains it empty. Except I swear whatever he says doesn't quite sound like English—but that could very well be due to my currently very lopsided beer-to-food ratio. Before I get a chance to question him, something mostly bright white flickers across the solitary flatscreen TV above the bar, catching my eye.
They're showing highlights from this week's NHL games, and what just so happens to be on the screen right now is a replay of Jake smashing his stick against the net—at various speeds and angles of him yelling a very loud and colorful "FUCK!" that accompanied his impassioned stick breaking.
"Oh boy, they're rebroadcasting your finest moment." I turn to watch as Jake looks up at the screen with a scoff and shaking of his head. Some strands of his hair fall out of place, and he's quick to run a hand through it to push them back where they belong.
My head's propped on my fist again as I blatantly stare at him, my bottom teeth tugging in and biting my lower lip as I enjoy the true work of art that is Jake. Those four and a half beers are really preventing my internal filter from functioning, and I'm fully aware that I'm very obviously ogling him in plain sight.
"You know, that goal was bullshit, and after sixty minutes of—"
He feels my heated gaze on him, and as he turns to look, a wide smirk creeps across his face.
"Mhmm, please go on about how you were well within you manly right to break a perfectly good piece of equipment that did nothing to—"
"Hey, that's you!" Not-Moe has finally put the pieces together as he points at the TV screen, and then to Jake. "What the hell are you doin' way out here in BFE?"
Jake gives my thigh a squeeze, smiling at me with a warm, soft look in his eyes.
"I'm here to help with family matters." A hot blush floods my cheeks as he continues looking into my eyes for a few more seconds before turning to not-Moe. "Could you do me a solid and get us a couple of burgers with fries? And another beer and some water. Thanks man."
The greasy food helps sober me up a little, and after Jake is satisfied that I've hydrated at least somewhat with a full glass of water, I get myself another beer. The bar crowd fills out around us, the average age dropping as the night gets later. I'm not overly aware of any of the patrons, just cognizant of the increased volume of conversations and shift to pop music.
Jake shrugged off his jacket a while ago, leaving his tattooed arm and well-defined biceps exposed in his plain white tee. His appearance has been one hell of a fucking distraction, and when he tells me he'll be right back, I'm content to slam the last few sips of my beer in an effort to cool off my very heated thoughts.
I feel a hand on my back, and as I turn around, the room spins just the tiniest bit. When my vision refocuses, I see Jake standing behind me, his hand outstretched as he's waiting for me to take it.
"Dance with me?"
Blinking up at him, I gingerly slide my hand into his as I nod and lean far too heavily into him to maintain my balance. He leads me through the crowd towards the back of the bar where the music is loudest. That's when the familiar chords of Lover finally make their way into my brain, and a huge smile paired with a blush floods my face.
In the middle of a crowded bar in the middle of nowhere Wisconsin, Jake pulls me into him, wrapping an arm around my waist as he lifts my hand into the air next to us, cradling it firmly in his own. As I place my other hand on the back of his neck, his lips move to find my ear, and what he whispers to me, and to me alone, unravels some of the tightness surrounding my heart.
"Let's replace the bad memories with good ones of our own."
Resting my head on his shoulder, I let him sway me gently from side to side, the sweet lyrics of the song mixing with the drone of the crowded bar as Jake's hand soothes me with comforting caresses on my lower back. We're perfectly content to exist in our own, happy bubble until the song comes to an end, and some pop hit comes blaring through the speakers.
Jake pulls his head away from mine to give me a soft, burning kiss before sliding his hands down to my waist, giving it a gentle squeeze.
"I'm gonna use the bathroom, and then let's get out of here, huh? I'll meet you at the bar." After tucking some of my hair behind my ear, he gives me one last kiss before his hands slide off of my waist and he walks away.
In all my love-struck, pleasantly drunk glory, I meander my way back to our spot at the bar and lean my elbows onto the counter so I'm facing backwards, making it easy to survey the crowd while I wait for Jake. No one face in particular sticks out as I take in the different gaggles of people sitting at tables and standing talking to friends and strangers alike. Most look to be my age, some quite a bit younger, and I can't help but smirk as I wonder how many used fake IDs to get in just like I did all those years ago.
As I'm contently scanning the crowd, the neon lights and yellow glow of the dim lights blurring together, I see Jake headed for me from the back of the bar. He's walking with unmistakable swagger, his eyes locked onto me and where I'm perched leaning against the bar.
Giving him a sly grin, I make a good show of biting my lip as he runs a hand through his hair, his gaze sultry as he takes me in. He comes to stand right in front of me, putting his hands on either side of my waist on the bar, his knee sliding between my legs. I smile up at him, taking in every part of his handsome face when he leans down and nuzzles his nose against mine before he starts placing the softest, sweetest kisses on my smirking lips.
It's as I'm giggling onto his lips, his strong body pinning mine to the bar, that someone behind him says something loudly—and very close to our vicinity. Too close.
Jake turns to look over his shoulder slowly, his hands still on either side of me and says something in a language that is most certainly not English.
"Ca c'était quoi?"
My eyebrows furrow in confusion as clear and concise French leaves Jake's lips, like it's the most natural thing he's ever done. My drink-fogged brain is torn between wanting to interrogate Jake about what he just said, and wanting to peer around him to see who brought it upon themselves to interject when we were very clearly busy with one another.
"Look what the fucking cat dragged in. Whoring herself around in a bar all these years later."
And just like that, whatever temporary high I'm riding from a few beers and being with Jake disappears. All the anxiety and fear of being back in my hometown floods back in an instant as Jake turns away from me and towards whoever is running their mouth. My stomach churns sharply as I see none other than Brian Kant, one of Charlie's best friends from high school. Clearly they're still close. He's heavier now and the same height he was back then, coming in at around my own five feet ten inches.
He's got his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, and Jake wastes no time stepping forward right into his space, looming over him with his face full of disgust and pure, unfiltered rage. Jake leans down, his face just a few inches away from Brian's splotchy complexion.
"Je devrais te casser la gueule." More fucking French leaves Jake's lips, in what I can only assume is nothing but an unadulterated threat. I make a mental note to myself to keep Google translate open and ready on my phone for future purposes.
Brian scoffs, and I grimace as I watch spittle from his mouth hit Jake's face. I watch nervously as Brian squares up, drawing himself up to his full, meager height as if he stands a chance challenging Jake. The whole bar has gone quiet as the two stare each other down, and I start thinking that now's a good time to try and pull Jake away, so we can leave and forget this ever happened.
But not-Moe beats me to speaking first.
"Brian, I wouldn't mess with him if I was you. He plays for the—"
"You're a fucking foreigner on top of it, go figure. You should take that fuckin' whore outta here before you—"
Jake cocks his fist and lets it fly faster than my drink-slowed brain can comprehend. He cracks Brian right in the nose, and I watch in horror as he falls to the floor, my hands flying to cover my mouth in shock and surprise.
Brian writhes around on the floor for a few seconds, grabbing his nose in agony before he scurries up and off the floor and stumbles for the door, his group of cronies following close behind him. Jake shakes out his knuckles as he looks around at the crowd, and everyone makes quick work of returning to their conversations and drinks like nothing happened.
All I can do is watch in disbelief as Jake bends down and mops up some of Brian's blood from the floor with the corner of his white shirt. Holy Jesus fuck, what did I just witness?
Turning around and walking past me towards the bar, Jake leans over and addresses not-Moe directly.
"Sorry about that, buddy." Jake reaches into his back pocket, pulls out a decent wad of cash and sets it on the bar with a few pats of his hands on top of it for good measure. "We'll pay our tab and be on our way."
All not-Moe can do is nod silently, his mouth agape after he just witnessed a professional hockey player deck one of his regulars. I also can't quite find the words to say as Jake shrugs on his coat over his blood-stained shirt, picks up my suitcase with one hand and offers me his other with an open palm.
Taking it, I let him lead me out of the bar into the bite of the November air.
"My rental is only a few blocks away. Let's get there and then we can figure out logistics."
Nodding silently, I fall in beside him as we navigate the sidewalk covered in equal parts snow and ice. I don't know what compels me, but as we start our walk, I find my lips moving and spilling out words that would usually stay buttoned up safely in my own mind.
"That was one of Charlie's friends from highschool. Looks like he's still just as far up his ass now as he was then."
"He's lucky I didn't pick his sorry ass up off the floor and make him go another round with me, fucking piece of shit. He deserved way fucking worse."
"That was tame compared to some of the things he said to me back then. Part of me hoped that some things would've changed while I was gone, but that clearly isn't the case at fucking all."
His hand squeezes mine hard, and I toss a glance up at him to see his jaw clenched together tightly. Wishing instantly that I could undo what I just shared, I clear my throat and tuck my head down against the wind.
"Let's just hope and pray that we can avoid any more brain dead idiots while we're here. We can hole up indoors, I can get done what I need to, and we can get out of here."
"With any luck, I'll get another chance to teach these fucking no-dick men how to respect women and keep their fucking mouths shut, or they'll end up with way more than a broken nose."
I reach up with my free hand to give his arm a few pats, attempting to soothe him as we turn up a path that leads to a quaint, two-story home.
"Easy, killer. The last thing you need is word of a punching rampage making its way back to New York. You got a good lick in on dickless Brian, and that felt more cathartic than you'll ever know."
He mutters, "Still should've clocked him again," as he presses a code into the keypad on the door. We step inside the warmth of the house, nothing but darkness and silence greeting us. It feels weird not having Huey run up for pets, his fluffy golden tail wagging happily behind him.
Jake flicks on a lamp in the entryway before setting down my suitcase and shrugging out of his coat and tossing it onto a nearby bench. He turns back towards where I'm still standing in front of the door, and instead of looking him in the eye, I take his hand in mine and run my fingers over his red, swollen knuckles.
I murmur "You should've hit him twice," under my breath as I stroke his inflamed skin, and we both let out quiet little laughs. It's as I'm staring at his large hand in mine that a thought crosses my mind, and with no usual barrier there to stop it thanks to all the beers I downed, they flow out of my lips and into the air between us.
"I don't want to stay at my mom's house. I can't."
His fingers are under my chin then, tilting my face up to his. His eyes search mine, full of nothing but care and concern for me.
"You can stay with me, Harper. You can always stay with me."
My eyes start to water as I look up at him, and before I can even track what I'm saying or doing, my lips and body are in motion.
"Jake, I think I, I think I'm ...," Both of my hands move to the sides of his stomach, where I grab onto the blood-stained fabric of his shirt and the firm muscle underneath. My own heart beat is ringing through my ears as I look up at him, torn between saying what I'm thinking and doing what I'm thinking about.
His hands move to cradle my face, and as he teasingly brushes his lips against mine, he whispers something to me in a language I don't understand.
"Je suis amoureux de toi, Harper."
But as he kisses me in the most longing, passionate way I've ever experienced, his hands cradling my face as our bodies come together, I can nearly feel what I think he said. So I ball my fists up in the fabric of his shirt, keeping him close to me for fear of ever being apart. Our lips move together slowly, unrushed as our tongues finally touch and I let out a deep, throaty moan into his mouth.
"I need you, Jake. I need you."
And I make that clear by sliding my hands up under his shirt, taking in the hardness of his abs with my cold fingers while I arch into him, begging him to touch me.
And his voiceless reply is to oblige me entirely, by telling me just how much he needs me too without any words at all.