AI The glass towel caught on a chip in the highball glass, and Rory twisted it free, wiping at the condensation that beaded along the rim. She hummed the first verse of a Welsh folk tune her mother used to sing while she straightened the stack of glasses behind the bar, her left wrist brushing the cool oak counter every time she moved. The green neon of The Raven’s Nest sign bleached the edges of the maps lining the walls, turning the faded British coastlines into sickly lime. A Muddy Waters track droned from the jukebox in the corner, the kind of slow blues Silas insisted was the only proper background noise for a bar.
The door’s bell jingled, sharp and bright, cutting through the bassline. Rory didn’t look up, wiping the last streak from the glass. “Draft beer’s on tap, house wine’s in the rack behind you. We’ve got pork scratchings if you’re hungry.”
The footsteps stopped two feet from the bar, and for a second, she thought Silas had wandered over to complain about her off-key humming. Then a voice cut through the track’s guitar riff, soft and familiar , like a memory she’d tucked away in a box at the back of her closet.
“Rory? Jesus, it really is you.”
She dropped the towel. It fluttered to the floor, and the highball glass caught on the edge of the counter, teetering for half a heartbeat before she grabbed it, her fingers closing so tight around the stem her knuckles whitened. She’d not heard that voice in four years. Not since she’d packed a single duffel bag and fled Cardiff in the back of Eva’s rusted Vauxhall Corsa.
She looked up, and the neon gilded the edge of Eva’s tailored blazer, the sharp line of her bobbed hair, the gold watch glinting on her left wrist. Eva’s hands were smooth, no paint stains under the nails, no calluses from hauling paint cans around the campus studio they’d shared for two years. She wore a suit that cost more than Rory’s entire delivery bike, and her shoes clicked on the oak floor when she shifted her weight .
She hadn’t changed that much , Rory thought, except for the tightness around her eyes, the way she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear like she was nervous , something she’d never done back in Cardiff.
“I didn’t think I’d see this side of the M4,” Rory said, setting the glass down hard enough that the beer taps rattled.
Eva laughed, a short, tight little sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “Cardiff’s got a new bypass now. Figures you’d still measure the world by which motorway you’re on.”
Rory nodded at the suit, at the polished shoes. “You look like you’ve swallowed a corporate merger whole.”
Eva’s hand flew to her blazer lapel, like she’d forgotten she was wearing it. “I am at a corporate conference. Wandered past, saw the sign. Remembered you used to talk about this bar.” She nodded at the maps on the wall, at the black and white photos of Soho street corners from the 1950s. “I never thought you’d actually found it.”
Rory’s gaze flicked to the delivery bag slung over the back of the bar stool, crumpled Golden Empress receipts sticking out of the top, a single failed takeaway container tucked under the armrest. “It’s the bar above my flat. I cover for Silas whenever his knee acts up.”
Silas pushed off the wall at the far end of the bar, his left leg shifting slightly to take the weight off his bad knee, his signet ring glinting on his right hand as he set two glasses of draft beer on the counter. The sound of his limp was soft, the scrape of his boot on the floorboards, and Rory flushed—she’d forgotten he was there, had forgotten how to relax around anyone who wasn’t a hangry delivery customer or a regular regular.
“Covering tonight,” Silas said, nodding at Eva. “Rory’s done five runs already this afternoon. Delivered a sushi platter to a man who complained the wasabi wasn’t ‘authentic enough’ in Soho Square.”
Eva’s eyes widened , and she picked up one of the glasses, running her finger along the rim. “You still deliver? I thought you’d… I thought you’d gotten away from that.”
“Gotten away from what?” Rory asked, pouring herself a glass of beer, her hands steady now, the tightness in her chest loosening a little. “Washing glasses and hauling noodles? It pays the rent. And Silas lets me sleep on the couch when I don’t feel like climbing the stairs.”
Silas clapped her on the shoulder, his hand heavy, and walked back to the corner, leaning against the wall again, leaving them alone. The Muddy Waters track changed, a slower, softer one, and the neon light flickered for a second, dimming before brightening again.
Eva took a sip of her beer, her lips pressing around the glass so tight her knuckles whitened. “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I meant to. When you first moved, I—” She stopped, swallowing, like she was forcing the words down.
Rory leaned against the bar, her forearm brushing the crescent scar on her wrist, the faint raised line still visible after ten years. “I wasn’t angry you didn’t come. I was angry you left. Went back to Cardiff, got that job at the design studio, never called. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”
Eva’s head snapped up, and her eyes glistened, bright blue in the neon light, just like Rory’s. “I didn’t forget. Dad’s funeral was three months after you left. I tried to call you, but your number was disconnected. I wrote letters, sent emails, nothing came back. I thought you’d… I thought you’d decided to start over without me.”
Rory froze. She’d changed her number the day she left, had blocked every number Evan had, had told Eva to delete any contact she had with him. She’d never told Eva that, had assumed she’d just blocked her by mistake.
“I changed my number the day I left,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I didn’t want him to find me.”
Eva’s free hand flew to her mouth, and she set down her glass, the beer sloshing over the rim onto the oak counter. “Oh, Rory. I had no idea. I thought you’d… I thought you’d gone back to Evan.”
The regret hit Rory then, heavy and warm, like the beer in her glass. She’d spent four years thinking Eva had abandoned her, had spent every lonely night in her tiny flat above the bar wondering why her best friend had left her alone in London, while she’d spent the same four years mourning her father, trying to reach Rory, never knowing she’d cut off every line of contact.
“I was scared to go back to Cardiff,” Rory said, wiping the beer from the counter with the edge of her sleeve. “Scared he’d find me. Scared I’d go back to him.”
Eva reached across the bar, and for a second, Rory hesitated, then she took Eva’s hand. Eva’s fingers were smooth, no paint stains, no calluses, but they were warm, and the same shape they’d always been, the same way she’d hold Rory’s hand when they were drunk after a late studio session, when they’d talk about quitting pre-law and opening a bookstore in Cardiff.
“I should have come sooner,” Eva said, her voice breaking . “I should have found you. I missed you, Rory. So much.”
Rory’s eyes burned, and she looked away, at the map of the Welsh coast on the wall, the lime green glow turning the cliffs into something foreign, something she hadn’t seen in four years. “I missed you too. God, I missed you so much.”
Silas cleared his throat from the corner, and Rory looked over, seeing him holding a plate of salted peanuts, setting it down between them. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said, his voice quiet, steady . “But the conference ends at six tomorrow. You’ve got time.”
Eva nodded, and she picked up a peanut, popping it into her mouth. Rory picked one up too, the salt stinging her dry lips, and for the first time all night, she relaxed, the tightness in her chest loosening, the scar on her wrist no longer feeling like a weight .
The jukebox shifted to a faster track, some old rock and roll, and the bar filled with the sound of a group of tourists laughing as they pushed through the door. Silas walked back to the bar, his limp barely noticeable now, and greeted them with a sharp nod. Rory looked back at Eva, and she smiled, the same smile she’d given her back in the Cardiff studio, when they’d stayed up all night painting posters for a student protest.
“Tell me about the merger,” she said, nodding at Eva’s blazer.
Eva laughed, this time a real laugh, loud and warm, and she leaned across the bar, her elbow brushing Rory’s. “It’s awful. They want me to rebrand all the company’s products to look like ‘distressed vintage road signs.’ I told them it’s a crime against graphic design.”
Rory grinned, the same grin they’d shared when Eva had accidentally spilled acrylic paint all over Rory’s pre-law textbook. “I knew you’d hate it.”
The staircase behind the bar creaked, loud enough to cut through the tourists’ chatter. Heavy footsteps , scuffing the floorboards, the kind of boots that made a sharp, heavy sound against the wood. The door to the upstairs flats slammed open, and a man stood in the doorway, broad-shouldered, his hair cut short, his face twisted with rage.
Rory’s pulse hammered against her ribcage, loud enough to drown out the jukebox. She recognized him instantly. Evan. The man she’d spent three years trying to outrun.
He stared right at her, and his lips curled into a snarl. “There you are. Thought you could hide from me, Carter?”
Silas’s hand moved under the bar, and Rory heard the soft creak of a baseball bat being slid across the floorboards. Eva’s grip on her hand tightened, her fingers white against Rory’s, and she leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Evan.