You, With a View(51)
He walks right past us to the rickety bar with the equally rickety bartender behind it. I don’t hear what he tells the guy, but a minute later a shot glass is set in front of him.
Theo drinks the shot. It’s not a quick toss down his throat; it’s a slow pour, like he’s shoring himself up.
I can almost feel the burn in my throat, racing down my stomach, the acidic turn there from bad news and alcohol. I got drunk the day I was laid off, threw up in the bushes outside the apartment I had to move out of a month later.
I’m out of my seat before I can overthink it. Across the sticky floor before I can decide what I’m going to say. He helped me earlier when the grief got too heavy. Maybe I can do the same.
Theo gives me a sideways glance as I lean up against the bar, ultra casual, my eyes moving over the liquor bottle display. “You want to talk about it?”
He shakes his head.
“Okay, I expected that. I did see Radiohead on the jukebox if you’re in the market for a mood-enhancing soundtrack.” I pull two quarters out of my pocket, letting them rest on my palm. “On me.”
He stares down at the quarters. “I don’t need this.”
“What? Money for your favorite sad boy music?”
“A distraction.”
“I’m repaying the favor,” I say, making a loose fist and jingling the change. “Literally and figuratively. You saved my mood earlier, I’m here to save yours.”
He flags down the bartender and orders another shot. Finally, he looks at me, but barely. “My mood is unsavable, Shepard. Spare yourself and go hang out with my granddad.”
His rebuff stings. It twists my concern into something uncomfortable and hot. Paul said he shares things with me, but it’s not much. Sometimes he’ll throw me a crumb, but what do I really know about him beyond things I learned ten years ago?
He’s Theo Spencer, and any problem he has he can figure out on his own. I’m Noelle Shepard, who needs someone to come in and rescue her when she cries over a song that her grandma loved. The difference is clear.
He must see me shutting down as I realize that I’m not going to get anywhere with him tonight. His mouth presses into a thin line, and he looks down at the counter.
I push off the bar, waiting for a response I know won’t come. “Come get us when you’re ready to leave.”
* * *
It’s four a.m. and I can’t sleep. Theo is curled up on the floor, facing the wall. He drank steadily for another thirty minutes after he stonewalled me, then stumbled out the door.
“I guess that’s our cue to leave,” I grumbled. The ride home was thick with silence.
I worried I’d have to help him get ready for bed, but he clanked and stumbled around in the bathroom before coming out with gym shorts on. I watched him while he wrangled extra bedding out of the linen closet and arranged it haphazardly on the carpet.
“You don’t have to sleep on the floor.”
He stopped, his back to me, and for a second I thought he’d capitulate. But then he shook his head, dropped to his knees, and wrapped the blanket around his body before stretching out. Five minutes later, he was snoring softly, and I was staring at the ceiling.
I fell asleep, but my restlessness woke me. For lack of anything better to do, I pull up TikTok and rewatch my videos, eyes filling at the pictures of Gram, the map, this introduction to their story I’m still learning.
I have to remember why I’m here. This is the story that matters, not whether Theo wants to pour his heart out to me. I’ve started to mistake our parallel paths on this journey for something it isn’t. I can’t keep doing that.
With a sigh, I kick off my covers and roll out of bed, grimacing when the mattress squeaks. But Theo is out like a light. His shoulders are bare, curving over the top of the blanket, hair mussed and dark against the white pillowcase. I grab my phone and the duvet from the bed. This room feels too small with both of us in here.
It’s cold outside, the air like soothing fingers brushing over my flushed cheeks. I drop into one of the rocking chairs and lean my head back, staring up at the velvet sky.
The peace that settled over me driving here has gone and come back two times over. Now, tracing my eyes across the stars above, I urge the feeling back into my chest where that ache never really leaves me.
But the peace is gone now, in its place that grief that always lingers.
“Gram,” I whisper up at the sky. “Where are you?”
The air is still. Not even a breeze.
She’s not here, I know it. But in case she’s somewhere, I start talking. “Your favorite song played at this bar I went to tonight, and it hurt thinking of you and Grandpa. But then a boy started dancing with me, and it hurt a little less.”
I wipe impatiently at a tear. “I have unfortunate news there: I like him.” I point up at the sky. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? This is a secret. It’s complicated and it can’t go anywhere. Paul’s his granddad—weird, I know, but stay with me—and he’s traveling with us while Paul tells me your love story, the one you never told me.” Wet emotion soaks into every word. “I like Paul, too. I don’t have any of you left, and he’s so nice. I get why you fell in love with him, although I’m still learning why you didn’t end up together.”