My decision to spend the evening at the hotel pub was a logical one. A professional one. I prefer thinking of it that way, as it's a little too hard on my ego to admit I'm here largely to look at Noah.
I'm not being stalky. You can say I'm a woman on a mission.
Most of the tables are full— families, couples, tour groups, the Kingston boys huddle together over pints and glasses and conversations. A young boy who can't be more than fifteen sits in a corner playing a weepy tune on a concertina. A fire is being lit, as with the evening weather had gone chilly and damp, and around the red glow of simmering turf a trio of old men with wind raw faces sit smoking contemplatively and tapping booted feet to the music.
I see Lacey at the far end of the bar, having what appears to be the most serious of discussion with a man who had to be a hundred and two years old.
The past two days have been what you can call the longest days of my life. Simone now spending most time with Tom, and Lacey being the usual boy magnet makes me realize just how single and awkward I am.
In the past days, I had rarely seen Cory. With only hot glances and utter disdain, Noah is hardly fit company. And I'm pretty sure he's serious about me not talking to him. So I keep my distance. Still, even with kitchen chores to pass time, I felt restless and isolated.
The waitress brings more drinks and I watch as she personally pours alcohol into a glass for Noah. He gives her a faint smile in appreciation and she sends him a flirty wink, disappearing to the back of the bar.
"Can I join you?" I look up to see a rugged older boy grinning creepily down at me. His teeth looks yellow, an eyeliner is drawn around his eyes, and his dark helmet hair sticks out in all directions.
"No," I reply. But he slides in into the stool beside me anyway.
"You look lonely. Want to spend the rest of the night together?" It's when he leans in a little bit too close that I have a whiff of cigarette and tobacco from his breath.
"There's a thing called private space, you know?"
"You've got a smart mouth," he smiles cockily. "What else can that pretty mouth do? Wrap themselves around my..."
I stand up abruptly before he has the chance to complete that sentence as he grabs me roughly by the arm, standing up on his feet too.
"Where do you think you're going? I'm not done with you."
Something catches the corner of my eye, and I look away from the inappropriate looking boy whose hands feel too rough for my skin. To my surprise, Noah is on his feet too, his gaze staring straight ahead at me and circling themselves on the hands that wraps my arm. His glare is deadly, boring holes into the sides of the boy's face.
I could make a fuss about being manhandled, create a scene, and by the looks of it, Noah would come charging here. But a fight might break out, plus I don't know who has a gun.
So I twist my arms out of his grip, keeping my voice low. "I don't have enough middle fingers to express how I feel about you. Your only chance of getting laid is to crawl up a chicken's butt and wait. Be a good boy, walk back to the jerk store you came from because they called, and they're running out of you."
With one quick glance at Noah who's still on his feet, I walk swiftly out of the pub. I take the elevator up to my room, unlock the door with my personal key and slam it shut behind me.
Setting down the bottle of Guinness I took with me from the bar, I drop to my desk chair with an exasperated sigh. My box of letters peaks out underneath my bed and I frown, not remembering the last time I wrote Him a letter.
Writing a letter to Him every day had become a habit since he left. He reads them, I'm sure of it, and I've kept every single letter stored up in a box. I'd tell him how my day went, like I always did when he was still around. At least that's what my therapist told me to do, and somehow, it's comforting.
I drag the box out from under my bed and place it on the desk. The latest one I wrote is dated June 25th 2020, as written on the front page.
Taking a deep breath, I tear out a blank sheet from a random book on my desk, picking up a pen along with it.
I start to scribble on paper:
Dear Loved One,
As I grieve for you, it sometimes feel like I'm incapable of crying anymore. It's been over two years since you passed away and though I don't think of you as often as I did at the beginning of this journey, you are never completely forgotten. Happy memories are tainted with sadness. It's hard to do things that we once always did together.
When you were here, I thought I had a good understanding of you as a person. You had always been a presence in my life. You were instrumental in making me the person I have become today. But when you left, I felt like I didn't know you at all. There was so much of your life that I didn't know about, and I had never bothered finding out from you.
When I was part of the funeral services, I realized that you would never get to see me graduate college. One of the many things that you would not experience with me. I hope that you would be proud of me. I hope you would approve of the choices I've made and love me regardless.
I will not think of you everyday, but I will never forget who you were, and what you meant. Your belongings that remains with me will always be treated with care.
The sun has gone down on this part of my life, but my life is not over. I want to live in a way that honors your memory. I know that someday, I would see you again. So for that reason, I will not say goodbye now, I will simply say goodnight.
Goodnight,
Love, Allie .
Tears are running fast and furiously down my cheeks once I fold the letter and lock it up back in the box, leaning away from it with my head in my hands. It feels like the world beneath me is spinning and if I hadn't been sitting down on a chair, I would've fallen to the floor along with my heart.
The voices that I occasionally hear comes back to my head and everything inside me breaks. I roll up into a ball on the cold floor, placing both hands on my ears to shut them out while I sob my heart out.
My eyes are red and puffy by the time I finally manage to stop crying. Simone and Lacey could come in and see me like this, and I definitely won't have an explanation to give. So I curl myself underneath the pile of blankets on my bed and doze off a little bit, until I hear the sounds outside my door.
It almost sounds like someone's trying to get in. I hear clattering of keys trying to open the door but it won't budge.
I grab my pepper spray from the nightstand, walking slowly towards the door and ready to attack any pervert standing behind it.
Creaking the door open a little, I peep from the corner to look who it is, and never in my life did I think I would see Noah looking so drunk and wasted, continuously using his room keys on my door.
"What... are you doing in my room?" He slurs out when I push the door wide open. "And why won't this stupid key work?"
"That's because your door is still five rooms away." His eyes are doing this weird thing where his left pupil faces right, and his right facing left.
Just how much alcohol did they feed him?
"Are you drunk or stupid?" He asks, staggering back and forth.
"It appears you're both."
"I know my room, and you're standing in the way."
My eye catches a glimpse of a cut on his lower stomach through his shirt which has little blood dropping from it as he shoves me out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
"You're hurt. What the fuck did you do this time?!" I almost yell as I kick the door open and head straight for Simone's first aid kit under her bed.
"It's not... that much of a cut. I'll live," Noah hiccups.
"That looks bad," I look it over once again, bringing out disinfectant and bandaid from the kit. "Take off your shirt."
His eyes snap back to normal, but still seems a little bit unsteady. "I don't want to."
"What? Like I've never seen chest and potbelly before."
"I don't have a pot-" he hiccups again. "-belly."
"Potbelly or not, we're treating that cut."
I watch him fumble with the top button of his shirt with unsteady hands and almost laugh at the mess he looks like. I'm used to seeing him being coordinated and poised, but now he can't even work on a button.
Ah, the power of alcohol.
After some minutes of fumbling, tugging, and staggering, he finally unclasps the last button, dropping his shirt to the ground. I squat down in front of him and begin to clean the injury with disinfectant and a clean cloth. Luckily, the cut's not deep.
"Want to explain what happened?" I ask, noticing how he shudders when the cold liquid touches his skin.
He stays silent for some seconds. "The guy who tried to pull a move on you... at the pub."
"Yeah?"
"Came over to our table... made some stupid bet. Says he'd fuck you before summer ends. So I took him outside for a friendly chat. Long story short, the chat didn't end too friendly."
I finish by covering the cut with a bandaid, pressing it flat to his skin so it won't come off and then get back on my feet. "You really need to stop getting into fights. You'd be covered in bruises before vacation ends."
"What was... I supposed to do? Sit back and watch him... talk shit about you?" He rubs at his eyes, forcing them to stay open. "Enough about me. It's your turn to explain."
"Explain what?"
"Why you've been ignoring me for the past forty-eight hours..." Noah glances at the clock on the wall over my head. "...and fifteen minutes."
Does he not remember telling me to stay away from him? Did the alcohol wipe a little part of his memory? But that's not how alcohol works, does it?
"Because you told me not to talk to you. Remember?" I roll my eyes, trying to figure out why I'm even having a conversation with a drunk person in the first place.
I look up and catch his eyes staring down at me, an unreadable expression crossing his drunken face. "Since when do you listen to me?"
Well, I agree he has a point there.
"The one time I said something and genuinely wanted you not to listen to me, your stupid ass listened. Why the fuck... do you drive me nuts?"
I stare at him in disbelief. I will never understand the male species.
"Okay, I get that I'm an asshole sometimes... and say things I shouldn't." He continues. "I know I'm not perfect, but I'm trying. Isn't that enough?"
I know it's the alcohol talking. Noah would never admit he's an asshole on a normal day. "I probably won't... remember all of this in the morning." He strokes my cheek, forcing his eyes to stay normal and intent on mine. He waits, seeing the change in my eyes of mesmerization. His lips curves, just enough to have my heart quiver. "And I pray I don't remember this too."
I freeze when he simply lowers his head, gently touching his lips with mine.
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