Chapter 4 - Three Stools Away at the Bar
The next evening I found him in the hotel lounge.
By then I'd figured out his room was one floor below ours, though I still had no idea how long he'd been living as "Marcus."
I sat at the far end of the bar in a light jacket with my glasses on. Adrian was alone. Bianca had apparently stormed off after another fight.
After a while, he glanced down the bar at me.
"You look like somebody having a better night than I am."
The nerve of it almost made me laugh out loud. The husband I'd mourned for three years was trying to make small talk with me because he couldn't recognize his own wife.
To be fair, I'd changed too. My hair was short now. I'd lost weight. The woman he remembered had been anxious and tired and always saying sorry for things that weren't her fault.
She wasn't around anymore.
"Maybe I just learned to stop letting disappointing people ruin a good evening," I said.
He gave a tired smile. "Sounds like experience talking."
"It is."
He lifted his glass an inch. "Relationships are complicated."
I looked right at him. "Only when people won't tell the truth."
Something moved behind his eyes.
I kept going. "Some people talk themselves into believing that running is easier than facing what they did."
The smile fell off his face. "Have we met?"
I stood up and set my glass down.
"Maybe I just remind you of somebody you left behind."
May you like
For a few seconds he stared at me, and I watched it arrive — the slow, sick recognition creeping up his face.
I walked out before he could say my name.
