James

James - Part 6

It hadn't been much of a conversation over the phone--just Ana telling me to meet her at this pub. No explanation, no pleasantries. Just a time and place. There was something strangely poetic about it, though this place wasn't the King's Head. It was called The Bald-Faced Stag, a name that felt more literal than mysterious. I guess you could ask yourself which particular stag had a white face that inspired the name of this old building, which had been refurbished into a trendy gastro pub. Either way, I wasn't here to think about the semantics of pub names. No, my thoughts were just doing everything I could to distract myself from the gut-churning dread of the conversation that was about to happen.

Why Ana had chosen to meet somewhere that serves alcohol when I was clearly the biggest dick going around it, I don't know. Not exactly the best venue for someone who'd just proven that he can't handle it. To be fair, though, my body still felt like it was recovering from the hellish bender I'd thrown myself into after the concert. The thought of a single drop of booze hitting my lips made my stomach lurch.

First, I need to face Ana. Take my punishment, whatever that looks like. Then I'd find Harvey and apologise to him too. The things I said... I can't even think about it without cringing. The words, sharp and ugly, echo in my head alongside those two damn letters. A vicious loop of regret I can't escape.

I arrive early and slide into a booth near the back, choosing a spot with a clear view of the double doors. I order a Coke and spend more time rolling the glass between my fingers than drinking it. My nerves are a live wire, crackling under my skin, which is almost welcome with the absence of my tingle that hasn't returned since that night. Honestly, I was surprised Ana had even called.

And then the door opens. My breath hitches as she steps inside, and for a moment, I can't think straight. Damn, she looks good. Too good. Her dark hair frames her face, soft and natural, and her dark eyes scan the room until they lock on mine. She is wearing a long coat, but even that can't hide the curves underneath. Impossibly tight jeans cling to legs that seem to go on forever, and I have to look away before my thoughts betray me completely. Those legs, those curves I'd once touched and--if I was honest with myself--likely never would again. The thought stings.

I stand quickly, running my sweaty palms down my own jeans.

"Hi," I begin hesitantly, my hands flapping. I don't know if I should kiss her hello or what. "Can I get you a drink?"

She nods, her exquisite face not betraying any emotion as she pulls her long coat from her shoulders and folds it, placing it in the booth.

Good, well at least she is staying for a while.

I smile nervously.

"Just a lemonade, please."

I force a smile and practically bolt to the bar, desperate for something to occupy my hands. When I come back with her drink, she is sitting opposite my untouched Coke, waiting. I set the glass of lemonade in front of her and sit down, trying not to fidget.

"Ana." My voice is more measured than I feel. I meet her gaze, forcing myself not to look away. "First, let me start by saying I am deeply sorry. My actions the other night were inexcusable, plain and simple. The drinking, the things I said--it was wrong, and I regret it more than I can express."

I pause, pulling at the cuffs of my shirt beneath my tan jumper, more to ground myself than out of nerves.

"I take full responsibility for my behaviour. No excuses, no deflections. I disrespected you, and I crossed lines that never should've been crossed. I'm ashamed of myself for it. And I want you to know, Ana, that I will never behave that way again".

Her expression doesn't change. Her dark eyes move from my face to my hands, then back to my eyes, but she says nothing. I wait, the silence between us more agonising than any cross-examination I have ever faced.

I can't read her expression. Her silence stretches just long enough to make my stomach churn; she is going to end it or do whatever you do for a non-relationship.

"James," she finally says, her voice calm. She leans forward, resting her forearms on the table, her slender fingers curling around the glass of lemonade. "Do you think I called you here for me"?

"I am not the most important person in this situation; you don't need to make any apologies to me. You need to think about yourself", she pauses. "And Harvey."

"What?" I begin confused, my voice barely above a whisper. "I was drunk. I was stupid. I was--."

"Stop," she interrupts, holding up a hand. "Don't you dare try to blame this on alcohol. Sure, maybe it made it worse, but it didn't put those words in your mouth. That came from you, James. From somewhere inside you."

She's right. God, she's right, and I hate it. I hate that she's sitting here, calling me out, and I hate even more that I don't have a better answer. She knows damn well what the issue is, and her eyes are imploring me to admit it.

Cut the puppet strings.

It was all such a betrayal, but what was left to do? This woman seems to draw out every hidden feeling I have fought so hard to bury since my mum died.

The issue was why I'd drunk so much in the first place.

Jealousy

.

That was the simple name to put to it. Lawyer James, sitting on the sidelines, watching the band--the band I helped with, worked for, and believed in--moving towards a life I'd never have. They had freedom, creativity, and the camaraderie of something they'd built together. And me? I am stuck in my father's world, wearing suits, drafting arguments, and being the lawyer I never chose to be. They are everything I want to be, and every time I see it up close, it reminds me how much my life isn't my own.

I can feel her gaze boring into me, unflinching, like she is reading every thought in my mind. My palms itch to fidget, but I lock them together under the table, forcing myself to hold her eyes. She deserves honesty, not the polished lines of a courtroom performance.

"I was jealous," I admit softly. "Jealous of the band. Jealous that this is not how my life will look, that it was all coming to an end, something that had really inspired me. Which is crazy because I was only ever an outsider. You want me to break away from my father's company, but break away from what, do what? They have a band; I am just the fill-in drummer".

Her brows knit, but she doesn't interrupt, so I keep going, the words spilling out now.

"I wanted so badly to be more than that. To feel like I belonged with you, with them. And then you and I..."

My voice falters. "After what we shared, I thought maybe... maybe you saw something in me I didn't. Something more. But then I saw you talking to him--"

Ana's mouth opens slightly, but she doesn't speak. Her eyes soften, just a fraction, but I can't read what she is thinking. It doesn't matter--I'm not done yet.

"I drank because I couldn't stand it," I admit, the words raw and bitter. "I couldn't stand how inadequate I felt. How much I hated being the guy who works for his dad, watching everyone else live the life they want while I'm stuck. And when I saw you with him... I felt like I'd already lost whatever this is between us before I even had a chance to hold on to it."

The silence that follows is deafening. My heart pounds in my chest as I stare at her, waiting for a reaction. Any reaction. A part of me wants her to yell, to tell me I was being ridiculous. Anything would be better than the unreadable expression on her face.

"James," she says softly, "it has never been about me or us."

Before either of us can say another word, the pub door opens.

I look up and see Harvey framed in the entrance, his eyes immediately finding me. His face morphs into an uncharacteristic thundercloud, full of fury and pain, and my stomach sinks.

"You bastard!" he roars, his voice cutting through the low hum of the pub. Heads turn, and I scramble to my feet, my pulse hammering in my ears.

"Hey, Harvey, wait--" I begin, raising both my hands, but he is already closing the distance between us.

"You think you can just say that and walk away, you ignorant fuck?" he shouts, jabbing a finger in my chest. "You think you can act like that and not deal with the consequences, poor little rich boy?"

I barely have time to react before he lifts both hands and shoves me. It isn't a hard push, more frustration than force, but it is enough to knock me back a step. Instinct takes over, and I shove him back, harder than he did.

And just like that, we are fighting.

Or at least trying to.

Neither of us knows what we are doing; we aren't brawlers--it's all wild swings and clumsy shoves, more a tangle of limbs and misplaced anger than anything coordinated. I try to grab his arms, but he twists away, catching me off-balance. He swings, his fist grazing my shoulder, and I stumble into the edge of the table.

"Stop." Ana's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding. I catch a glimpse of her darting towards the bouncer, holding up a hand to prevent him from intervening.

"Let them do this," she says firmly, her voice low but resolute. "They need to."

Harvey lunges again, and this time we both go down, crashing onto the hard wooden floor in a heap. It hurts like hell, but neither of us lets go. His hands claw at my jumper, and mine grip the front of his shirt, more to hold on than to fight back.

"Harvey, I'm sorry. Stop!" I gasp, my back pressed against the leg of the table. "Just stop. I am so sorry".

And suddenly, he did. His body sags against mine, and he stops struggling. His breath comes in ragged, shuddering gasps, and when I look up, his face is crumpled, his eyes brimming with tears.

"He is going to die, James," he chokes out, his voice breaking. "Isaac is going to die."

The fact we all know to be true still hits me like a punch to the gut, harder than any blow he could have landed. I freeze, the weight of him pressing against me, his grief pouring out in broken sobs.

"Harvey," I whisper, my voice hoarse, "I am so sorry."

But he just shakes his head, burying his face in his hands as his body trembles with the force of his anguish. I sit there and look up at Ana, seeing the sad darkness in her eyes as I reach my arms out and wrap them around the broken man in front of me.

***

That nice, dependable guy, the one I mocked when I was drunk, dependable Harvey? He came back, after breaking down to me, a virtual stranger in the grand scheme of things, about the overwhelming grief he was feeling. The guy forgave me there and then and was nothing but understanding. I told him about the letters and saw his eyes fill with tears again. I admitted my jealousies and insecurities, and he told me he would love nothing more than to keep me in the band.

There is a long pause after that, the space between us still heavy with the aftermath of what we've both said. I don't trust myself to answer his statement at that moment, and Harvey leans forward, clapping me on the shoulder with more force than necessary. But it's not angry. It's a little like... letting go.

"We'll talk when you're ready." He smiles softly and drains his drink.

"I don't know what comes next, James," Harvey says as he stands, his voice rough again. "But you'll figure it out. You have to. Some people aren't getting a next time, remember".

Then, he's gone. The double doors swing closed behind him.

I turn my head, and there she is. Ana. She's been sitting in the booth with us, just listening, and suddenly I am overwhelmed with the feeling that she's the only person left in the world who can either make this feel better--or make it worse.

"I--" I start, but I can't find the words.

Ana's gaze doesn't soften. If anything, it grows sharper, more focused with that uncanny sense of hers knowing what I am going to say without me saying it.

"James, you can't keep putting this on other people. You can't keep thinking someone else is going to fix you. You have to fix yourself first. And I can't make that happen".

My heart plummets all over again, my eyes drop to the table, and I reach up behind my neck, rubbing the skin and willing the tingle to return.

"James," she says quietly, her fingers reaching over to lift my chin so our eyes meet. "I can't show you the way. You have to find that on your own. I'm not going to be the answer for you. No one can be. That's something you need to figure out for yourself."

I open my mouth to argue, but she holds up a hand, stopping me with a finality that I can't ignore.

I swallow, my throat thick with emotion. "But I don't know where to begin. I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I'm so fucking tired of feeling like this, Ana."

She moves closer to me, her gaze softening, but there's still that sadness there. "You don't need me to fix you, James. You will find your own way. I know you will. But it has to be you. It can't be me".

***

I wake up the next morning with a pounding headache--not from alcohol this time, but from the emotional rollercoaster of the pub, along with a few bruises from my tussle with Harvey. I am still in limbo, unsure of where things really stand with Ana, though I definitely am not optimistic. The lines between us have been blurred, tangled, and then ripped apart in the span of a few days. I don't know if she is done with me or if she is giving me space to figure my mess out. Either way, I don't feel like I have the right to push for answers.

Not after what I've done.

Ana deserved more than whatever storm is raging inside me, and I have no idea if I can give her that, but I want to desperately. I miss the tingle she gave me. For the first time in years, I can't lawyer-talk my way through it and can't spin the situation in my favour. I just have to let it hang there, unresolved, like a song with no ending.

I make the effort to cook breakfast in my too-quiet apartment. It is the kind of silence that amplifies the noise in your head, and I hate it. I flip the eggs onto a plate, half-heartedly toasting a slice of bread, and sit down at the table, fork in hand. But I'm not really hungry. I gaze out at the Thames, not even bothering to count the barges. I long to be back on my balcony at home, where I can eat out there any day of the year if I choose to; it is so damn cold and dark here.

Ana's words--and Harvey's words--ran on a loop in my head. One sleepless night later, and I am still struggling with the reality that they know me better than I seem to know myself. I thought the apology, the honesty, would be enough to shift things with Ana, to put things back to normal. To fix what was broken. But her absence said everything: I've lost her. And I am finally facing the reality that I had lost myself long before.

The thoughts aren't new; they have been creeping into my mind for weeks, but the betrayal that was ingrained in me at having them has barely eased. Something is shifting, though; the ideas and the fallout are solidifying. It feels like I am close, so very close. Can I take the last step?

I reach up and rub the back of my head as I stare down at the eggs on my plate. It was a good thought; it could work. For everyone.

London. I'd take the London office.

It is the logical choice. Close enough to stay connected to the band and Ana's world, if they'd have me, but far enough away to stop living in the family shadow--my father's shadow. A space to create something of my own, to prove--to my dad, to myself--that I could run things in my own way, not how the company dictated.

The more I think about it, the more it feels like the solution I've been searching for, one that doesn't mean outright betrayal of the family. I will make the effort to work better with the London office and strengthen the pitiful position my dad thinks it is in. Maybe even save it. The deal I am secretly brokering didn't have to go the way my dad said it should; we could change it and make a better outcome for everyone.

I lean back in the chair, sipping my now-lukewarm coffee, trying to ignore the hollowness that is settling deep in my chest. The tingle--

that feeling

--was still gone. The one that used to fire me up when I thought about Ana, the band, even the faint hope of carving out a different path.

It isn't there anymore.

This decision is momentous; it is kind of cutting the puppet strings, I guess. All the puzzle pieces are fitting into place, but with all my self-reflection in the last day or so, I can admit tentatively that the picture they are forming didn't move me. I felt better, sure. More in control, more purposeful. But there is no spark. No tingle.

I stare back out at the grey morning fog hanging low over the Thames. It is a good choice. It is perfect.

Or is it?

***

The next morning, the usually dour London office is buzzing with some pre-Christmas energy. A small, half-decorated tree sits forlornly on Michaela's desk in reception, its blinking lights clashing with the sterile corporate décor. I walk down to my glass-walled office, drop my bag on the chair, and loosen my tie. Time to start putting my London idea into motion; except instead, I chuck my bag on the floor and slump into my chair instead, spinning around to look at my glimpse of the water.

"Good morning, Mr. Brennan." Michaela's chirpy voice fills my office box.

I spin back around. "I'll just leave these here," she chirps, dropping a stack of papers onto my desk. She winks at me before bustling out of the office.

Sighing I pull them towards me, before my gaze catches on the bright colours of an image, completely at odds with the usual monotone legal documents she prepares for me.

Reviews

.

I stare at the picture in the national paper that Michaela had left open on top--it's of me mid-drumroll, arms a blur, lights casting golden-red streaks across the stage. Even I have to admit, it is a good shot. The caption reads:

"James Brennan: The unexpected energy behind the kit."

I stare at it, a strange mixture of pride and discomfort churning in my chest. I haven't touched the drums since that night.

Then my desk phone rings. I pick it up, my eyes still fixed on the review.

"Mr. Brennan, I have Miss Brennan on the line for you." Michaela's voice announces.

"OK," I sigh, waiting for the clicks as she transfers my sister's call.

"James,

finally

! I've been trying to reach you all morning!" Her voice is sharp, as always, but for once there is some excitement in it.

"I've been busy, Emily," I lie, already dreading whatever comes next.

I hear her thinly veiled attempt to disguise a scoff before she continues. "Well, make time now. I saw the reviews of your little drumming thing, James. And the

photo.

Everyone in the office is talking about it--you're

famous!

"

I groan. "Please tell me you didn't share that around there."

"Of course I did!" she snaps, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "It's good PR. For you

and

the company. Even Daddy liked it."

I let my head drop onto the desk. "I'm so glad I got Dad's approval," I say dryly.

"Don't start, James," she shoots back, her tone hardening. "It helped you know, with all the weird shit you've been pulling with the London project, have you forgotten what you're actually there to do?

And she is back to business. "Emily," I start, but she cuts me off.

"No, seriously. I'm the one pulling the hours, doing the work, and giving a damn about what this company

needs

. You've got your head in the clouds, chasing after girls and playing rockstar. Maybe you should think about what's best for the company for once."

I clench my jaw, the old argument rearing its ugly head. Emily has my biggest account back home, and she was the one who knew the right answers, who followed the path Dad laid out without question. And me? I frustrated her because I played the reluctant heir, the one who got a corner office she desperately coveted.