Page 5 of Anything But Lonely

The thought of losing myself in something flickers in the back of my mind. Drinking until my name doesn’t matter. Something stronger, just so the numbness comes easier. Or letting this bartender lead me out of here and into a bed where I can stop reality from setting in—even if just for a night.

I slide my card across the bar instead. “Not tonight,” I say with a smirk, a familiar mask I put on as he gives me a soft smile and a nod as he grabs my card.

It’s all so tempting in the way destruction usually is—quiet, simple, almost reasonable if you don’t look at it too closely.

When you’ve spent long enough learning how to stay numb, even pain starts to look like relief, because at least it’s something you can choose instead of something you have to feel.

But the truth is, I still say no. Not because I’m strong enough to resist it, but because the apathy has its own weight to it—it’s easier to sink into.

Waiting for the bartender to close me out, I pull my phone from my purse, checking my messages for the first time today.

There are a few from various extended family members sending their condolences, and I clear the notifications without much thought—wishing I could tell them to take their condolences and shove them up their asses.

I ignore Jack’s message asking where I am, and I send a quick no thank you to Rumi’s text asking if I need anything before opening my thread with Ava. She texted me, wanting to check in since she couldn’t be at the funeral today, and my lips curve at the photos of baby Eliana she sends, her newborn bubble making my heart full and ache at the same time for reasons that have me regretting saying no to the flirty bartender.

The creak of the high-top chair beside mine pulls my gaze up. Tattooed hands—stacked with silver rings—press into the bar as a warm presence settles into the empty seat I’d half expected to stay vacant.

The bar isn’t too crowded for a Friday night. Still busy enough that no one lingers on anyone else for long. Still loud enough that anonymity feels easy.

That’s part of why I wanted to get out of here. That, and the fact that I’m hovering too close to a decision I don’t fully trust myself not to make.

“Is this seat taken?” His voice is low—graveled, almost rough around the edges—but there’s something oddly melodic threaded through it. Strangely intimate in a way I can’t immediately place, like a song I’ve heard without realizing I’ve memorized it.

When I look up, I meet eyes I’ve only ever seen from a distance, framed by stage lights and a moving crowd. They’re partially hidden beneath a baseball cap pulled low, just enough that recognition feels like a flicker before it sharpens into certainty.

The eyes that usually close when his voice cuts through a crowd—backed by a guitar, bass, and drums that shake the air more than fill it. The voice that doesn’t just belong to a stage, but seems built for it.

“You’re—” I start, my voice barely over a whisper, but the bartender sliding my card back across the bar interrupts, saying I’m all set.

The moment breaks cleanly, like something snapped back into place. A hard reset. A reminder that whatever I was about to do—whatever direction that recognition was going to take me—doesn’t belong here. It doesn’t matter that Mateo Lane is sitting next to me.

It doesn’t matter that he’s the singer of the lyrics I had blasting on my way here from the cemetery. The songs I’ve been listening to on repeat since my mom died.

The songs that I play when I’m too tired to even keep my eyes open. The songs I play to keep the silence from getting too loud.

A breathy chuckle pulls me back to him.

He shifts in the stool like he’s suddenly not sure what to do with his own body, fingers going to the brim of his cap again even though it’s already as low as it’ll go. “It felt pretty stupid putting this hat on,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then, like he’s already regretting saying anything at all, he huffs out a short laugh. “I don’t know what’s worse,” he adds, picking at one of the silver rings on his fingers, eyes not quite meeting mine, “thinking I’m important enough to need a disguise,” he pauses, a faint crease between his brows, like he’s trying to decide if he should just stop talking. “Or thinking this—” he taps the brim of his hat lightly, “—was gonna do anything.”

His mouth twitches like he’s annoyed at himself for still talking.

He glances at me then, quick and unsure, like he’s bracing for judgment and already pretending he doesn’t care either way.

My lips quirk, my cheeks twitching at the smile threatening to form but seeming so out of place after so many months believing I’d forgotten how.

I lean in—close enough that the warmth radiating off him steals my breath for a second. It lands so suddenly my body recoils on instinct, bracing for pain instead of comfort. For a split second, I don’t even register it as warmth. It feels like a brand closing in, inch by inch, like if I move any closer it’ll press into my skin and stay there forever.

I watch as Mateo’s eyes slightly widen at my direct attention. The bar is too dim to see if there’s any color to his cheeks, but the way his gaze darts away from me for a second before coming back to me has me feeling like flirting with this man could give me a new lease on life.

“Your secret is safe with me, rockstar,” I tease, confidence lacing my words that I don’t truly feel.

He watches me closely, unsure. Like he’s not quite sure how I want him to react.

But before I can take this conversation any further, I grab my coat and purse, leaving before I let myself sit in this warmth too long.

Because I know myself well enough to know what happens if I stay.

I don’t trust the part of me that’s been numb for too long.