CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Abigail

I wonder if I could do it. 

I hate to admit it, but I’m turned on enough by the end of the night that I’m considering heading up to Gavin and seeing if we could have a little talk. It’s irrational beyond measure and not me at all, but the point of moving away from Hartford and to Inferno Falls was to start over as someone else. I don’t have my parents’ money; I’m cut off even if I hadn’t cut myself off. I’m not the brainy little rich girl who skipped out on a Princeton scholarship anymore. Now I’m …

Well, I already have a persona here. And like it or not, I’m two varieties of waitress — not the free, artistic, self-determined spirit I always fantasized I’d one day be. Things have ground to a halt, but the stodgy, useless parts of my personality have already moved from my Hartford self and become permanently lodged in my Inferno self. I don’t want to be a goodie two-shoes here who’s above screwing a handsome rocker for a single night of good times. But I am, like it or not. 

I force myself to stay away. To look the other direction when his set ends, ignoring all the girls who line up to touch him. I’m better than that. Yes, I’m riled up, and yes, I’m thinking irrationally. I may have imagine things I’d never do, like cornering him in the back and doing things to him that only the worst sluts might imagine. I comfort myself in knowing that what’s in my mind is only my reality if I allow it, and that nobody’s to blame for their fantasies or dreams. It’s another part of us that thinks those things, and I refuse to act. 

I finish my shift. For a while, it’s terribly uncomfortable, but the urges subside with my eye on the ball. I become myself again, and as I do, my heart quickens at the sense of a near-miss. I would never have done those things … or would I? I don’t think so, but part of me remembers how urgent things had felt, after I’d heard the other waitresses’ stories and let Gavin’s hypnotic music squirm its way beneath my clothes. I’d been plenty irrational. Maybe willpower and dignity had kept me from acting. Maybe it was luck. 

As the night winds down, I again find myself stocking bottles under the bar. I remember Gavin coming over at the same point yesterday trying to talk, and how I blew him off. 

I realize I was acting like that not because he was a pig, but because I felt angry and hurt. Our discussion at the Nosh Pit had been a silent kind of promise. I’d expected one kind of man, and the Gavin I’d seen performing (and mingling afterward) didn’t match. 

I’d only feel that way if I was attracted to Gavin. If the thoughts I’ve been fighting tonight hadn’t been there from the start — albeit in less dirty forms. 

I felt angry last night, and tormented tonight. Even feeling normal, without the sense of a hand down the front of my pants, is torment. Because I’m keeping those sensations at bay by staying busy and not looking in Gavin’s direction. I can be my usual, honorable, self-respecting self as long as I forget he exists. But how sustainable is that?

For one, I might run into him at any time. Now that I know who he is, I’m sure I’ll start to see him around town where he’s previously been a face in the crowd. He could return to the Nosh Pit. And with me stepping into Meg’s shoes after her firing, I’d guess that my wishes at the Overlook will continue to come true, too, and I’ll keep working these lucrative Friday and Saturday nights. If that’s the case, I’ll see Gavin twice every week. Worse: I’ll see and hear him perform twice every week. I hate that standing and listening to Gavin’s songs makes me feel naked. When he looks at me from the stage, which he did a few times tonight, it’s like he can see right through me. I can feel that whole-body blush, and it’s as if I’m on display. As if, were he to ask, I’d be his for the taking. 

I can’t fight what I felt tonight. At least not forever. 

I have to face it. 

I have to confront Gavin, as I’d meant to from the beginning. I need to look into his eyes and see the cruel arrogance that allows him to sleep with women and then discard them. I need to search for the source of his music and find the nothingness that must be there. I’ve heard chatter that his set never changes, and I’d already determined that it was nothing more than recycled songs from his old band. Can he really be that creative? He’s probably washed up. 

I shouldn’t avoid him. Avoiding Gavin will only build his mystique in my mind. The more I don’t know, the more my mind will long to discover. The more I hide, the more my body will want him to find me. 

I need to face him. If I get to know him, I’ll see him for who he is. There’s even an expression: “Familiarity breeds contempt.” And if the other old maxim is true, if it’s absence that makes the heart grow fonder, it makes sense that I need to grant my heart the opposite. 

I need to sit with Gavin. I need to have drinks with him. I need to ask him about his brainless, repetitive set. I need to grill him about his philandering ways. I need to find out what I can about his true past because there’s no way it’s as exotic and sexy as the fake backstory my dumb brain keeps imagining.

And hey, if worse comes to worst, maybe I do need to sleep with him. He’s into single-serving girls? Fine. I can be one if I need to. Like ripping off a Band-Aid. Because once he’s done his whole thing, ravishing me and leaving me spent and satisfied, all the mystery about that will be gone, too. I can stop wondering what his bare chest looks like because I’ll know. I can stop wondering what the contours of his naked back feel like, because the mystery will be gone. If I go in knowing what I’m doing — intending to get mine instead of merely allowing Gavin to get his from me — then it’ll relieve the pressure. And after all this time without a man in my life, don’t I deserve a bit of pressure release? 

I stand from the bar. I see Gavin sitting with a man and an attractive young woman. The music is over, and the house lights are up. It won’t be long before Danny starts asking everyone to clear out. 

I steel myself. I undo my ponytail and run my hands through my hair (too red, too flat and boring) in the back bar mirror, then pull it back again. When I’m sure no one is looking, I put on a bit of lipstick and push my girls up from below, making them settle most satisfactorily inside my bra. 

Then I walk around the bar, out onto the floor.

I’m just going to talk to him. 

Once I know him better — as long as I’m careful to keep my defenses up and not let him charm me without permission — I’m sure I’ll like him less. And once I see Gavin for who he truly is, I can return to fearlessly working beside him, because I’ll know what he isn’t versus what everyone assumes he is. 

As Gavin sees me crossing the floor, he says something to the people around him. They glance at me, smile at Gavin, and stand. As if they understand what he would want from any approaching woman, and are clearing a path for seduction. 

But I can handle Gavin Adams. 

I’m sure of it.