Chapter 2: Staying out late.
Rory bit her lower lip, forcing back the fresh wave of emotions clawing at her throat. The last thing she wanted was to break down over the phone, especially when she wasn't ready to explain what had happened. "Change of plans," she said briskly, trying to sound casual despite the rawness in her voice. "I'm coming home."
Silence lingered on the other end, brief but heavy, before her mother finally spoke again, her tone cautious but gentle. "Rory, did something happen?"
The question made her grip tighten around the phone, her nails digging into her palm as she swallowed the lump rising in her throat. She could still see Jonathan's shocked expression, the other woman's wide, horrified eyes, and the dull ache in her knuckles from where her fist had connected with his jaw. It replayed in her mind like a cruel film reel, mocking her over and over again.
"I'm fine, Mom," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "I just—I'll be home soon."
She could hear the hesitation in her mother's voice, could almost picture the worried crease forming between her brows, but before Emily could press further, Rory ended the call. She let her arm drop to her side, her fingers loosening around the phone as she placed it into her pants pocket, exhaustion settling deep in her bones.
She hailed a taxi and got in. The moment she slipped into the backseat of a taxi, she let her head rest against the cool glass of the window, watching the city blur past in streaks of yellow and red lights. Her mind remained numb, lost somewhere between disbelief and pain, until the sharp chime of her phone ringing again pulled her back to reality.
Rory brought out her phone and glanced at the screen, her breath catching slightly at the name flashing across it.
Julian. Her childhood best friend.
For a split second, she hesitated, her thumb hovering over the answer button. She knew that Julian would guess a thing or two as to what happened. The second he heard her voice.
She wasn't ready for that. At least not now, not when she could barely keep herself together. Without thinking, she pressed the disconnect button, shoving the phone back into her coat pocket and turning her gaze back to the passing city.
The neon lights reflected in the glass, blending into a mess of colors, but one stood out—a flickering red sign glowing erratically against the darkness. Her eyes locked onto it, and before she could second-guess herself, she straightened in her seat.
"Stop here," she instructed the driver, her voice firmer than before.
The taxi slowed to a halt in front of a bar, its dimly lit entrance looking almost inviting in the late hour. She handed the driver a few bills, barely waiting for her change before stepping out and making her way inside.
The air inside was filled with the scent of aged whiskey, wood polish, and a faint trace of smoke. A few patrons were scattered throughout, some nursing their drinks in quiet contemplation while others engaged in hushed conversations, but Rory paid them no mind as she walked straight to the counter.
The bartender, a woman in her late forties with sharp, observant eyes, glanced at her with mild curiosity before setting down the glass she had been drying. "What'll it be?"
Rory sniffled, barely managing to wipe away the last remnants of her tears as she slouched onto the barstool. "Something strong."
The bartender arched a brow. "How strong?"
Rory exhaled shakily, her voice cracking despite her efforts to keep it steady. "The strongest you have."
The bartender studied her for a long moment, her gaze assessing, before sighing under her breath. Without a word, she reached behind her, grabbing a bottle of deep red grape wine and setting it on the counter. She poured a half glass and slid it toward Rory, her expression unreadable.
Rory barely spared it a glance before picking up the glass and downing it in one swift gulp, the rich bitterness burning slightly as it traveled down her throat. The warmth settled in her stomach, but it did nothing to dull the ache in her chest.
Before the bartender could react, She took the wine bottle and downed another gulp, the burn sharper this time. But when she set the bottle down, her fingers were still trembling.
The bartender merely shook her head, muttering something under her breath before moving to the far end of the counter to tend to another customer.
The burn of the wine barely masked the hollow ache in her chest. She tipped the bottle again, welcoming the numbness as it settled in. Somewhere in the back of the bar, a pair of eyes lingered on her longer than they should have.
The dim glow of the bar lights reflected off the countless liquor bottles lining the shelves, casting a warm, golden hue over the polished counter where Rory sat, her posture slumped forward, the weight of her thoughts pressing heavily on her shoulders. The faint sound of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses barely registered in her mind as she absently traced the rim of her empty glass, her lips parting slightly as soft, bitter words slipped past them, spoken more to herself than to anyone who might have been listening.
"Why, Jonathan?" she murmured, her voice thick with the sting of betrayal, her fingers tightening around the stem of her glass as though anchoring herself against the flood of emotions threatening to pull her under. "Was I not pretty enough? Was I not good enough?" The words tasted sour on her tongue, each syllable an echo of the self-doubt that had been gnawing at her since the moment she had discovered his infidelity. She had given him everything. her time, her trust, her unwavering devotion, only to have it all discarded as if it had never mattered, as if she, never mattered.
Her grip on the bottle beside her tightened slightly as she poured another glass of deep red grape wine, the liquid sloshing gently before she raised it to her lips, the rich, velvety taste doing little to drown the ache festering in her chest.