A/N: Thanks so much for all your wonderful thoughts! It was great hearing from so many of you again, and I'm thrilled that you're enjoying the start of a new story!

Most characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belong to me. All mistakes are mine.


Chapter 2 – The Last Call


Years turn to decades but in my mind you remain
Just the same
Winter leads to spring and roses bloom
without restraint

Cold don't melt away
not since that day
Sun don't chase the gray
Without my babe

I walk the world alone
Since I hurt you
I face an endless roam
Each day anew

Dusk succumbs to dawn and you're the light
You're my twilight
Left west coast for east
Each day's a feast
But night's a fight

The dark don't ever break
Erase your nape
In dreams at night I pray
Your skin I trace

I walk the world alone
Since I hurt you
I face an endless roam
Each day anew

And I said
I walk the world alone
Since I hurt you
I face an endless roam
Each day anew

"Endless Roam"
Music and Lyrics by Edward Cullen
Final Single release before Retirement
Copyright 2008


September 13, 2024 – New York City, New York: 8:53 p.m.

Someone vacated a high stool at the bar, and I quickly jumped on.

From this vantage point at the center of the venue, I scanned my surroundings. It was dark – not unusual for this type of setting, but this was a whole other level of bar ambiance, an ambiguous nebula of murky shapes and shadows.

As is also usually the case, the hindrance of one sense enhanced the others. Despite my inability to see the stage, the familiar sounds of a band prepping before a set drifted in the smokey air as buoyantly crystalline as helium. I could easily pick out each disjointed instrument aiming for harmony, the microphone whistling at an ear-splitting pitch, and all the other equipment being unpacked, plugged in, and having their levels adjusted.

Nostalgically bittersweet, these sounds. They carried more than one set of memories with stings in their tails. But they still made me smile.

It soon grew apparent that the haze could be attributed to more than a fog machine. A wooziness-inducing blend of cigarette smoke and weed crept up my nostrils, never mind that the smoking of any substances in indoor spaces had been prohibited since I was a teenager. The scent mixed with the brine of spilled beer and hard liquor, in itself almost enough to intoxicate. Further rounding out the pungent tang was the unmistakable sharpness of burned popcorn. Like the greasy butter that usually bathed the misshapen kernels, its fragrance thickly coated every surface – floors, bar counters, even the steps on the way down.

Yet for everything heard and sniffed, the patrons' faces remained a mystery, except for those immediately to my left or right and other than for the bartender, backlit by his workspace's recessed lighting. The rest were vague silhouettes – boisterous voices melding with the old-fashioned jukebox and the sports announcers calling out plays from the hanging flatscreens. Everything else, my imagination filled in: the corners laced with cobwebs, the ghostly apparitions floating around small tables, the city's criminal element loitering at the peripheral edges of my vision, cue sticks and darts in hand.

The venue itself was narrow and tunneled like a subway. Also, like much of New York City's transportation system, it was below street level. I came upon it accidentally while aimlessly wandering the city streets, wide-eyed and wondering what the fuck I'd just done.

It was a veritable hole in the wall, and had I blinked at the wrong – or right – moment, I would've missed it entirely. Only a steel door marked the spot like the proverbial X. The door was positioned between a pair of much more prominent storefronts – a vape shop to the right and a bodega to the left. A small piece of sanded wood hung above the door frame like an afterthought, makeshift signage with a flourish of red and black graffiti – three letters in the whimsical script of urban artists:

TLC.

I had no clue what TLC stood for. Either way, whether it was an abbreviation for words of welcome or warning, it failed to stop me from yanking open the clunking steel door. The door groaned in protest – perhaps another omen – yet I proceeded. When I discovered an abyss evocative of Wonderland Alice's rabbit hole, complete with steep, rickety stairs leading to who knew where and issuing another creaking advisory, it too went unheeded as I descended.

The biggest unknown was what possessed me to venture down that staircase. Unlike the children's book heroine, I was no probing damsel. My reckless impulses were shed years…decades earlier, as is often when one transitions from a blithe young adult to responsible adulthood. However, not everyone could accurately pinpoint when their naïve illusions were set aside. The Red Hot Chili Peppers may have drawn blood under a downtown L.A. bridge. For me, a garage in Bainbridge Island, Seattle, Washington, was the setting for the greatest foolishness of my youth.

Unfortunately, a side-effect of relinquishing youthful fancies is that one never quite reclaims the carefree spirit, that lighthearted heedlessness where anything is possible. That's not necessarily bad because when you're nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, and in love, having your heart broken by the hauntingly talented frontman in your otherwise mediocre college band sounds like a risk-worthy venture. At forty, such adventures are nowhere near as cute.

Case in point: impetuous impulses led me to stumble into a dive bar wholly unlike any bar I'd ever been in, and I'd been in my fair share of bars. It was a split-second decision, almost an out-of-body experience that had me sneak out in the middle of my own fortieth birthday party like a woman in the midst of a very early mid-life crisis. Further figuring that if I was in for a penny, I might as well go in for the whole pound, I purposely left behind my cell phone, that perpetual tracking device of the modern ages.

It was reckless and, at first…undeniably exhilarating. I was free, wholly untethered for the first time in a long time in this technology-laden existence, where one is continuously connected to some pulsing point in this intertwined and hyperlinked web of a world. No one, including me, had the slightest idea where I'd disappeared to in the hectic and densely populous network that made up New York City's grid. There would be no pin-dropping for location accuracy, no Social Media check-ins, no Instagram posts hash-tagging my every move, and no need for self-deleting Snapchats.

Yet, any Julie-Andrews-dancing-across-the-Austrian-alps type airiness, any butterflies of excitement I may have felt at the moment of my escape now flopped into the pit of my stomach like dead beetles. I'd taken dozens of twists and turns and kept note of none. What if I couldn't find my way back? What if I never again emerged from this cloistered, underground locale? Had anyone noticed my absence yet? They must've, right? After all, fleeing one's own celebration without a word or any way to be reached wasn't an everyday-

A tin bucket, roughly the size of a child's sand toy and abruptly set before me, interrupted my inner panic. Mottled popcorn kernels - black, white, and various shades of yellow – spilled over the rim as if still popping. The bucket was accompanied by an open palm smacking the bar counter to my side. I gave a startled jump as the palm's owner briskly called out before moving away,

"Last call's at 2:30!"

2:30? As in a.m.?

Already disoriented and uneasy, an extra fissure of alarm coursed up my spine. Was it really close to two-thirty in the morning? I had no idea how long I'd been sitting here; five hours were as likely as five minutes. I cast my gaze to the wall clock hanging above the mirrored liquor shelves – an old-fashioned item as nowadays, most preferred electronic, in-your-face time tellers. Either way, here we had the short hand dangling a bit past the Roman letters for the number nine and the long hand quivering tightly between the numbers three and four.

It wasn't even 9:20 p.m., more than five hours until 2:30 a.m.!

In the smart-aleck bartender's defense – a young guy in his mid to late twenties – I could admit that he was on his third attempt to get me to commit to a drink. However, I was too busy panicking about my surroundings to think of cocktails. Plus, the bartender hadn't paused before me long enough for an answer, instead making brief eye contact every time he crisscrossed me.

Neither could I fault his impatience. The bar counter was abuzz with action and bustling with thirsty patrons. The bartender moved deftly between them – filling orders of whisky, tequila, rum, etc.; mixing, shaking, pouring, lining up highballs, snifters, and shot glasses. He carried out multiple facets of his job simultaneously. If droplets spilled onto the work surface, he yanked a towel off his shoulder and wiped them up while juggling bottles and implements and adding ingredients into the mix: lime wedges, olives, mint leaves. He was more than a bartender; he was a show person.

When another few minutes passed, and his eyes flashed my way again, eyebrow raised, I cleared my throat.

"What do you have on tap?"

Rather than answer, he reached for a pint glass and set it under the tap, concurrently collecting the tab from another patron, grinning and offering his thanks for the tip. Meanwhile, dark liquid spouted into the glass like molten gold. When the bartender released the spigot, a mouth-watering, sparkling froth capped the treasure at the rim. As he set it over a napkin and in front of me, the concoction sloshed.

"Here ya go. Let me know what ya think," he shot quickly before scampering off.

"Thanks!" I called out, but he was already on the other side of the bar. If he heard, he gave no indication.

If one could drink liquid gold, that's what I proceeded to do. After two or three generous chugs of the decadent draft, I set the pint down and sighed, licking froth off my top lip. A sense of calm washed over me – an early-onset buzz, but relieving, nonetheless. In this more placid frame of mind, I once again inspected my surroundings.

Narrow and dark, yes, those descriptions remained apt. Yet, the space wasn't so much divey as it was simply old. How many places in New York City weren't old? The cobwebs I'd imagined…I noted now that they were metaphorical, lacing the venue from end to end in a weave of time and experiences. No, I still couldn't see most faces, but the laughter and enjoyment of the boisterous crowd made facial expressions unnecessary. This was the type of place a younger me, Rose, and Alice…and perhaps others I once knew would've loved performing in.

"Well, that sure turned your frown upside-down. Good, huh?"

I started, surprised at being addressed by the bartender again when I was still nowhere near requiring a refill. He'd volleyed the two sentences on a quick pass as he trekked to deliver a couple of bottled beers to the other end.

"It's pretty delicious, yeah! Thanks!" I yelled over the din.

"No problem," he offered on his next loop. I'd noted how, while he worked, he carried on this sort of back-and-forth conversation with almost everyone seated around the bar, quickly picking up each topic where left off. The patrons who knew him, which seemed to be about everyone but me, called him Tyler or Ty.

"Hey, Tyler, another rum and coke, will ya, please?"

"Tyler, can you believe he said that to me after how good I treated him?"

"So, Ty, my man, what do you suggest I do?"

I sipped my beer and eavesdropped on conversations. When I popped a popcorn kernel into my mouth, I was further surprised. Like the bar, the popcorn was nothing like I'd first assumed – toasty rather than burned and mouthwateringly buttery.

"From out of town?" bartender Tyler asked on his return orbit. He paused before me long enough to reach for a bottle on the top shelf.

"Am I that obvious?"

Tyler poured the requisite drink. "Yep." Without elaboration, he sped off.

Shrugging, I took another sip. Tyler soon rematerialized, pausing to lean on the counter. He was good-looking—ebony skin, curly black hair, equally dark eyes, and a gold nose ring that contrasted nicely. When he set both arms on the counter, I noted a pair of tattoo sleeves.

"No offense was meant."

"None was taken," I assured him, popping a buttery kernel into my mouth.

"But," he continued with a grin, "nestled in the neighborhood as we are, and perhaps further concealed by those stairs," he jerked his jaw toward the neon-red 'EXIT' sign leading to the narrow, sharply inclined staircase, "we don't get too many out-of-towners."

He sprinted away, doubling back a couple of minutes later. "Point is, most who end up here don't do so accidentally. They either know of it or know someone who knows. Know what I mean?"

"I think so." Chuckling, I sipped my beer.

"Plus, there's those curls." His gaze roamed my hair appreciatively. "Those curls demand attention."

"Thank you," I said, fluffing up my curls. "There was a time I hated them."

He shook his head. "Don't ever hate those curls."

"I don't anymore. They're my naturally grown, organic crown." I smiled nostalgically at the descriptor once given to my hair.

"They sure are. Finally, there's your outfit. We don't dress like that 'round these parts unless we're burying someone or marrying someone."

At this, I burst out laughing. Tyler sped off while tossing me a few napkins, which I used to wipe up the droplets I spewed. Thirty seconds later, he returned with his bar towel and wiped up whatever I missed.

"I'm so sorry!"

Discarding that towel into an unseen bin beneath the bar, he retrieved a clean one from behind him, deftly unfurling it over his shoulder.

"Not a problem," he assured me with an easy smile. "But are you burying or marrying someone?"

"Neither," I snorted. "I was celebrating a birthday. My birthday, to be accurate."

"Oh yeah? The woman of the hour, huh? Happy birthday!"

He left on another tour, returning to ask, "How old?"

It wasn't my favorite question of the night, not by a long shot. Kind of a rude one to ask, too. But Tyler was obviously a Gen Z'er. They tend to be painfully boundless.

"The big four-oh."

He gave me a slow nod. "Ahh. That explains the lackluster reply. Don't worry, I wouldn't have put you at a day over thirty. Thirty-two at most," he reconsidered.

"Thanks?"

Again, he departed.

"So the party ended, and you all chose to hold the afterparty here?" he asked on his next round-trip. His gaze wandered as if searching the bar for additional, unfamiliar forty-year-olds who looked somewhere between thirty and thirty-two.

"Not exactly. I knew we were coming to New York City for my birthday, but I had no idea they were planning a party. So I…sort of snuck out in the middle of the thing, wandered and meandered a bit," – I twirled a hand over my head to illustrate my wandering and meandering – "and I ended up here."

Here, he hung back again and set his arms on the counter, chuckling.

"Wait, you snuck out of your own fortieth birthday party?"

"It was a surprise party I neither wanted nor requested, which sounded horribly thoughtless and ungrateful just now. I do realize that."

He kept right on chuckling. "The thoughtlessness and ingratitude depends on a few factors."

He pushed away from the bar and raced off to refresh drinks. I waited for his imminent return. Yet, at the same time, a suspicion took root. If I wasn't mistaken, it appeared that young Tyler had a thing for slightly older yet still attractive – if I did say so myself – out-of-towners.

Yes, he was good-looking, but there were a couple of 'Buts'. For one, to me, his attractiveness was like that of a puppy: Cute. Adorable. Pinched-cheek and nuzzle-under-the-chin worthy. His fellow Gen Z twenty-somethings would likely have a thing or two to say about that assessment. More than likely, they'd place Tyler in a much more R-rated category. It wasn't that I couldn't appreciate the looks of twenty-something men. I gave kudos, power, and support to women my age and beyond, confident enough to date them. I, personally, was just not interested.

However, Alice and Rose would get a kick out of this story when I told them how the young, cute bartender crushed on me. Maybe, despite their happy marriages, they'd even envy me a little. That is if they didn't first choke the shit out of me for disappearing on them.

Tyler returned and pulled up three empty shooters between us. He filled each while simultaneously holding up his left index finger. "One, where was this party?" His middle finger joined his index finger. "Two, what was served at this party?" He raised his ring finger next. "Three, who was at this party?" Finally, his pinky finger joined the other piggies. "And four, why did you sneak out?"

Fitting two of the shooters between his long fingers and carrying the other in his other hand, he departed and pivoted back a couple of minutes later. I had my answers ready.

"The party was at The Pierre, where my friends, family, and I are staying."

Tyler whistled low through his teeth. "Wow. You really did take a few twists and turns. Ma'am, you are a long way from base."

I moved on to answering the second question, but doubts about my theory crept into the back of my mind. See, I'd noted Tyler called me 'Ma'am,' and while respectful, the title didn't mesh with a younger-guy-with-a-crush scenario.

"The hotel catered the party with a selection of canapes followed by a sit-down dinner. Lots of wine and champagne floated around."

Tyler now quirked a brow. "I see you've upgraded to tap and a bucket of burned popcorn."

Chuckling, I took a sip. "Seems like it."

"Hold on." He left to prepare a couple of cocktails. Returned. "Go on."

"As for who was at this party," I resumed, "everyone was there. Or rather, almost everyone. You can never gather everyone you've ever met into one room. There are teachers, your first driving instructor, the OB who delivered you..." – the ex-boyfriend who mangled your heart – "etcetera."

Tyler nodded, stepped away, and returned.

"As for why I snuck out…well, I abhor birthday parties."

He quirked a dark, thick brow. "Abhor? That's a strong word. I've only ever met one other person who's described his sentiments for birthday parties in such terms. Anyway, go on."

"That's it."

"That's it?"

"That's it." I held up my pint glass in salute as if it were my champagne flute from earlier in the evening, though this was way more tasty. Draining it, I set the empty glass on the bar counter with a thud and an appreciative, "Ahh. So yes, it was a great place, fully catered and professionally decorated, and almost everyone was there. Friends. Family. Everyone spent time and money to attend, and…and I left."

Patrons called out to Tyler. He ignored them for a few seconds, holding my gaze. Studying me. He then tapped the bar counter with both palms.

"Hold that thought."

"I wasn't really thinking anything. Not really. I think," I muttered to myself as he traipsed off. After a couple of minutes, I was again startled out of my reverie by a refilled pint placed before me.

"I'll leave ya with this refill, and this thought 'til my next pop-in. Ready?"

"Ready," I nodded sharply.

"Maybe…" Tyler slowly hedged, "just maybe, why you left your party is related to why you abhor birthday parties in general, and they both have less to do with where, what, and who was there and more to do with who was not there."

He bounced after that gem, taking a few laps back and forth before I gathered the courage to peek up from my now half-empty second pint.

"You pay attention."

"I try," he replied with a grin and shrug.

"I…I haven't thought about him in years- at least…at least not deeply, not too deeply. And I don't want to start now."

"Good thing you're at a bar, where deep introspection of one's life and motives is frowned upon."

My laughter followed him. "Good. Hey, I've always wondered," I said on his next visit, "are bartenders required to take psychology classes or something?"

"Yeah," he replied with as much mock sobriety as one can manage while shaking a cocktail shaker. "There's a class down at NYU called Bartender's Armchair Psychology 101 open only to us bartenders."

I was still laughing at that one when he set the next pint down in front of me, lingering again.

"Now, the band's about to start. They're really good. Have you ever heard a live band before?"

"Jay-sus, I know I'm an overdressed out-of-towner, but do I look like I crawled out from under a rock?"

Tyler chuckled somewhat guiltily.

"I've more than heard a live band perform. I was once in a band back in college. I was vocals," I stated proudly. "Well, one of the vocals."

"Get out!" He slapped the bar counter with his handy-dandy towel. "Huh. My boss was in a college band, too."

"Amazing," I nodded, pretending to be impressed. College bands were a dime a dozen. They weren't indicators of meaningful talent, and I included myself in that assessment. Though other previous college band members…

No. Hadn't I just told myself not to think of him tonight? Also, I may have been just this side of tipsy, and based on Tyler's amused chuckle, he may have noticed.

"All right, then give this band a listen. You might recognize them. They had a couple of hits in the late 90's. Were you still in college in the late 90s?"

"I was barely in high school in the late 90s," I smirked.

"Huh," he snorted again. "I was barely in existence in the late 90s."

It was becoming increasingly apparent that I'd misconstrued Tyler's interest in me.

Meanwhile, the emcee performed vague introductions up on stage. I swiveled around in my stool, unable to see anything on stage due to the curtain of smoke, but their opening riffs captured my attention.

A couple of times during the set, I looked over my shoulder at the clock above the bar shelves and wondered if my absence from the party had been noted yet. There would be questions when I returned. Lots of them.

But I'd worry about that later. For now, I had great music on stage, a delicious tap in one hand and buttery popcorn in the other. As the set wore on, I danced in my seat, hooted, and hollered along with most other patrons.

Twice, two men approached and asked if they could buy me a drink. Smiling, I shook my head. Politely, they moved on. Who needed men? I was having a great night!

The set ended with loud applause and whistles joining the smoke and the scents in the air. I participated in this as well. When Tyler approached again, I yelled out,

"Hey, they were great!"

"Told you."

"And they did sound familiar, though I can't place them."

He leaned against the bar counter and whistled a tune – off-key because, contrary to what modern-day rom-coms tell us, good-looking guys who can also carry a tune do not grow on trees. They're rare, indeed. But the tune Ty tried to whistle struck a familiar chord, and my eyes widened.

"That's them?"

"Yep."

"Holy crap, they were huge back when I was in high school! Everyone hummed that tune!"

Tyler nodded. "Yeah, my mom used to hum it around the house too."

My brows shot up. Now, I was being compared to his mom? I suddenly imagined a different response from Alice and Rose, one of amusement at my expense rather than envy, when I told them the story of Tyler and tonight's bar adventure.

I returned to the subject at hand. "So, what are they doing here?"

"It's what the place is known for." He poked a thumb over his shoulder toward the door.

"TLC," I said, recalling the signage above the door upstairs. "Tender Loving Care?"

His confused expression confirmed I'd guessed incorrectly.

"Tender Loving Care? Where'd you get that from?"

I stopped before dating myself further by throwing out any mention of 'The Gloved One.' Thankfully, I wasn't made to guess again.

"TLC stands for The Last Call," Tyler clarified.

Now, it was my turn to frown.

"Sorry, I forgot you're not a local. See, the bar's owner…well, it's a long story, but my boss enjoys giving the one-time-famous bands and performers a last call, so to speak."

I nodded as if this had made sense all along. "Hence, The Last Call. That's cool of your boss."

"Yeah, my boss is super cool people," Tyler said, genuine admiration marking his tone, "and a massive talent – singer, songwriter, plays one badass guitar," – with each consecutive attribute, he tapped his palm against the bar counter – "and you're in for a treat, cuz he's an ex-performer who rarely performs anymore, except for every once in a while."

"Like tonight?"

"Like tonight," he nodded.

"Wow! Looks like I wandered into TLC on the right night!"

"You sure did. Have a listen." When he jerked his jaw, I followed its direction toward the stage. "I'll pop by in a bit and see if you can do a better job of placing this performer than you did the previous band."

Squinting, I tried to sharpen my view, but the attempt was like trying to pierce through a wall of smoke with a fork.

"I can't see at all. That's fine. I'll try to guess by the voice. It'll make this game even more fun!"

Tyler quirked a brow. "Oh, I'm sure it will now after you've had a couple of…" He bent an arm at the elbow, pretending to throw back a pint. "When you walked in, you looked like someone cracking the eight ball too hard would've spooked you back up the stairs."

I burst out laughing. Luckily, this time, there was no spewing. "I was not that jumpy! But yeah, close my tab, please. And can I have a bottle of water?"

"Sure. And yeah, my mom can't handle more than three drinks in a row, either, without getting goofy."

I would not be bringing Tyler up to Rose or Alice. I scowled at his back as he skipped away obliviously. The emcee up front began introductions once again and distracted me from my death stare. With a sigh, I turned back to the stage.

"Well, this one doesn't need introductions."

Once again, she kept it vague. Now that I knew some of the venue's back story, I wondered if, along with the ultra-smokey atmosphere, the discreet intros were meant to preserve the anonymity of former big names. Either way, the regulars in this bar appeared to be aware that they were, as Tyler put it, 'in for a treat.' The applause and whistles for the previous band were a bedtime lullaby compared to the deafening whoops and hollers that now rose up. Yet as cacophonous as they were for a few seconds, after a few more, a hushed, anticipation-laden silence fell all over the venue – at the bar, by the pool table, from those just milling about – one and all stopped to listen.

The strumming of a lone acoustic guitar opened an emotional, stirring intro from the performer.

"This is…well, it's as lacking as it always is on this day in September," he said, "but here we go."

I'd already lost the power of speech from the first soulful riff. In fact, I could more than feel my heart's suddenly erratic pounding; I could hear it so loudly it almost drowned out every other sound – but not quite. The deep and raw baritone rose above everything as it billowed across the mic, above the mad pummeling in my chest. When chords and vocals melded into a lyrical cadence, every atom in my body froze and went numb.

"Years turn to decades but in my mind you remain
Just the same
Winter leads to spring and roses bloom
without restraint

Cold don't melt away
not since that day
Sun don't chase the gray
Without my babe

I walk the world alone
Since I hurt you
I face an endless roam
Each day anew…"

Over the past couple of decades, I'd experienced both moments of intense joy and equally heartrending pain. Of course, I had. Both are a part of every life, as I'd learned, part of this up-and-down rollercoaster, where each day is a lesson on how to hang on tight while trying to enjoy both the climb and the coasting without overthinking the dips behind or those ahead. This is especially true for women living in the confused and confusing twenty-first century, where we can feel so much yet still be judged for plenty.

This, however, constriction of the heart, lungs, throat, and blood vessels all at once couldn't be classified as a dip or a climb, and it definitely wasn't simple coasting. And it had been decades since I'd experienced this.

"Dusk succumbs to dawn and you're the light
You're my twilight
Left west coast for east
Each day's a feast
But night's a fight

The dark don't ever break
Erase your nape
In dreams at night I pray
Your skin I trace

I walk the world alone
Since I hurt you
I face an endless roam
Each day anew…"

And I said
I walk the world alone
Since I hurt you
I face an endless roam
Each day anew…"

He repeated the chorus twice – once his signature, as was how his volume dipped in direct contrast to the hitch of pain in his voice. He was…a good showman, always skilled at more than just the proper and timely fingering of guitar strings and blessed with more than fantastic vocal cords. What he excelled at, what more than likely had always given him that extra edge, had put him at a far notch above many others who'd tried and failed to achieve the level of fame at which he succeeded, despite its brevity, was his display of vulnerability. Vulnerability seeped into every sound he created. He infused it into every facet of his stage performance. It added to the natural, earthy seductiveness of his voice.

That was his raw talent.

His strumming slowed. Vocals grew grittier. Raspier. Until there was no more voice, no more guitar strings. Only…silence.

The bar erupted all at once with a standing ovation, a clamor of applause, acute whistles, and displays with lungs, arms, and legs. I wouldn't have been surprised if the commotion had caused the ceiling to collapse onto the underground venue. Everyone appeared in the midst of a feverish frenzy.

Under the cover of this mayhem, I disguised the long, sharp, and audible hitch that marked my first full breath since the opening seconds of this performance. Simultaneously, I jumped off the stool and slipped a shaking hand underneath the top of my dress. The furious thrum of my frenzied heart knocked against my hand. Still, I ignored it as I snatched out the bills I slid inside my bra when I made my earlier insane escapade.

It was time for another escape, this one a thousand times more crucial to my emotional survival.

Foregoing a search for Tyler, I slammed down all my cash – if I recalled correctly, a one-hundred-dollar bill, a few twenties, and a handful of fives and singles – onto the bar counter next to the water bottle that had appeared at some point. Only in the most abstract sense did I stop to consider that, even if the amount of cash was way more than necessary to settle my tab, Tyler, the Bartender/Barside Psychologist, deserved a hefty tip anyway. Regardless, the last things I planned to do were to stick around and count or ask for change.

Amid continued outcry, and dense, smoggy surroundings, I mad-dashed toward the thankfully bright 'EXIT' sign, blaring bright red. I was almost there, less than a couple of feet from the first step, my gaze laser-focused on the literal narrow escape, on the sharply inclined, traitorous staircase leading out of this treacherous rabbit hole, when I went numb again.

"Ahh, okay. Well, Tyler's up here telling me we've got a newcomer, an out-of-towner who's," Tyler's boss cleared his throat, "who's celebrating a birthday today? Wow. Today." The final word was spoken low, almost as if more to himself than to his audience. "Yeah, let's…let's sing happy birthday to our newcomer and welcome him- oh, sorry, her. Let's welcome her to The Last Call."

He strummed the guitar, now playing the notes to that old, well-known celebratory tune, and began singing along with the rest of the bar, turning it hit-song-worthy in his voice.

"Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday, dear…"

And there went my escape.

"Hey, Ty, what's her name?" the bar owner asked off to the side, where big-mouth Tyler now apparently stood with him. While he awaited Tyler's reply, his talented fingers kept up the chords, and in the same, hot-mic manner, I heard Tyler answer,

"I didn't catch her name, but she's at the bar- hey, where'd she-? There she is! By the exit! Hey, ma'am, don't go yet! Turn around! Ed and the rest of us want to wish you a happy fortieth birthday!"

"Forty?" Tyler's boss echoed, and his strumming ceased with an abrupt, sharp, and jarring sound.

The crowd didn't precisely fall silent, but many of the previous happy-birthday-well-wishers now morphed into curious whisperers at Tyler's boss's one-word outburst and what I'd bet money was a never-before-missed note. Meanwhile, I still aimed for an escape, even if it grew as increasingly elusive as Wonderland's white rabbit. Nevertheless, barring a hole opening up in the ground that I could either fall or crawl into, the only way out was up. I lifted a heeled foot, determined to move forward.

Instead, as I stood directly under the brightly lit 'EXIT' sign, I experienced another out-of-body bout, like the one that earlier led me to escape my own birthday party. It was as if my nervous system was suddenly commandeered by an alien race, and these otherworldly creatures decided that I would swivel my head and that the rest of my body would follow suit.

And because irony was the night's theme, the thick haze abruptly cleared, just a tiny bit. An opening appeared in midair like Moses parting the Red Sea. Except, instead of a gaping path through a body of water, this was a gap in a bar's murky smoke, and it was enough…just enough to meet a pair of wide, green eyes locked on me. Along with the copper-penny-hair, the familiar mouth, and the angular jaw, those eyes, in that oddly-shaped and ill-timed fog-free opening, were enough to assure me that I hadn't incorrectly attributed the voice.

"Izzy," Edward Cullen breathed into the microphone in case any remaining doubt that it was him needed annihilating.

In turn, I spun around and did as Tyler predicted I would minutes earlier. I broke into a run up the sharply-inclined stairs, spooked not by an energetically whacked eight ball but by the sound and sight of my ex-boyfriend.

"Bella!"


A/N: Thoughts?

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