Chapter 1: Whiskey and Wicked Promises
The air in the bar was a solid thing, a fog of stale beer and ancient cigarettes that clung to the back of the throat. A flickering neon sign cast a sickly yellow glow over worn leather booths, their seams split and leaking faint whispers of foam. Ryan’s fingers, calloused and familiar, traced the wet rim of his whiskey glass. He hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she’d slid into the booth opposite him, a vision in a dark dress that shouldn’t have belonged in a place like this.
“Twenty-seven years,” he said, his voice a low rasp that fit the room perfectly. “You just… appear. In a dive bar in Portland. I’d say I’m hallucinating, but my imagination was never this good.”
Channah Bloom smiled, a slow, easy curve of her lips. She leaned back, the leather creaking in protest. Her red hair, a bold slash of colour against the gloom, was cut in a sharp fringe above her eyebrows. “You look the same,” she lied. He didn’t. The long hair was now more grey than brown, tied back in a messy knot, and the lines around his eyes had deepened into grooves. The new tattoos snaking up his forearms told stories she hadn’t been there to hear. He was better. So much more real.
“You’re a terrible liar, Channah. It was always your one tell.” He took a sip of whiskey, his eyes crinkling. “You look… incredible. New York’s been good to you.”
“New York is a demanding bastard. It keeps you on your toes so you don’t get soft.” She reached for her own drink, some clear, sharp liquor she’d ordered without thinking. “A music professor. I always pictured you on a stage, not in a lecture hall.”
“The stage gets old. The screaming fans. The groupies.” He deadpanned, a ghost of his old smirk playing on his mouth. “Turns out I prefer explaining the socio-political context of punk rock to eighteen-year-olds who think the Clash is a brand of sneakers.”
She laughed, a real, unguarded sound that cut through the low thrum of the jukebox. “There’s the Ryan I remember.”
“Is he?” Ryan’s smile faded, just a little. “I hope not. That guy was an idiot. All passion, no plan.”
“Plans are overrated.” She held his gaze, the warmth of the alcohol spreading through her chest. “I woke up this morning, looked at the rain on my window, and thought, ‘I wonder what Ryan is doing right now.’ So I bought a ticket.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He shook his head, a strand of grey-flecked hair falling loose. “You were always the bravest person I knew.”
“Or the most reckless. Depends on the day.” She leaned forward again, elbows on the sticky table, ignoring the faint pull of gum underneath. The space between them crackled, the past rushing in like a tide. She could smell him now, a mix of clean cotton and that same sandalwood soap, underneath the bar’s patina of neglect. Her heart was doing a strange, syncopated rhythm against her ribs.
His eyes dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second. “Why now, Channah?”
She didn’t answer directly. Instead, she let her voice drop to a murmur, a low, intimate sound meant only for him in the crowded, anonymous dark. Her lips parted, her gaze locked on his.
“You always said you’d fuck me in a place like this.”
The air vanished. The music, the distant clatter of glasses, the murmur of other lives—it all receded into a dull hum. The years between them, the failed marriages, the cross-country moves, the entire weight of their separate adult lives, dissolved in the space of a heartbeat.
Ryan went perfectly still. His knuckles were white where he gripped his glass. A slow, deep flush crept up his neck. He didn’t look away. He couldn’t.
“Channah,” he said, her name a warning and a prayer.
“It was a different dive bar. In Cleveland. The floor was stickier.” She didn’t break eye contact. She felt powerful and terrified all at once.
“I remember what I said.” His voice was rough. “I was twenty-two and stupidly in love with you. I meant every word.”
The confession hung there, raw and undeniable.
“Are you still?” she asked, the bravado leaving her voice, leaving only a genuine, aching curiosity. “Stupid, I mean?”
He finally moved, draining the last of his whiskey in one sharp, decisive motion. He set the glass down with a firm click on the warped wood. He stood up, the booth sighing as he slid out. He pulled a few crumpled bills from his jeans pocket and left them on the table.
He looked down at her, his expression unreadable, a storm of conflict and want.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. Channah stood, her legs feeling less steady than they had a moment before. She nodded, a single, sharp dip of her chin. He didn’t offer his hand. He just turned and started walking toward the door, and she followed, the sound of her heels on the sticky floor the only thing she could hear.