Sweetheart || BBANGSAZ

11. Come On Hanni

"You can't stay sour forever," Emily said as she set a beer down in front of me. I grabbed it, takin' a long swig.

"I ain't sour, I'm just grumpy," I muttered, leanin' back in my chair. She let out a sigh, her hand restin' on my knee.

"They'll come back, and when they do, they're gonna beat the hell outta those guys. Then? We'll party forever and ever," she said, tryin' to lift my spirits.

"That sounds like somethin' outta a fairytale," I said, my voice flat.

"A fairytale would be you and her gettin' the hell outta this place," she shot back. I pursed my lips at that, and Emily did the same, both of us starin' at the bar in front of us.

I got up from the ground, brushin' off my short shorts. "Empty threats won't work. I tried that already. They just flirted with me," Emily said, wrinklin' her nose.

"Bastards," I muttered, feelin' the frustration build again.

"Maybe we just need to move on," she said, her tone softer now. I didn't wanna hear her say it, but deep down I knew she was right. Maybe this whole thing was just a blip, somethin' that wouldn't even matter five years from now. Maybe I'd be someone's sweetheart, livin' a whole different life.

I finished my beer, lettin' the cold drink settle me a little. "Maybe," I finally admitted.

She gave my shoulder a squeeze as we started walkin' home. And as we left, I couldn't help but think—that'd be the last time I saw that place. For a long, long time.

-
5 months later

Five months later, my life looked nothin' like it used to. I was standin' at the counter of a small, artsy café in the middle of San Francisco, wearin' an apron over my flannel shirt, my hands stained from ink and paint. The café doubled as an art space, where locals and travelers dropped in to drink fancy coffees while workin' on their sketches or writin' their next screenplay. It was a far cry from the dive bars and busted-up streets I left behind in Chicago.

I'd gotten a job here almost right away—just luck, I guess. The owner, an older lady named Ruth, had taken one look at me and decided I'd fit right in with the mix of oddballs and creatives that wandered through. She didn't ask much about my past, and I didn't offer. It felt good, startin' over without the weight of who I used to be.

Most days, I'd open the shop early, brew a pot of dark roast, and sketch by the big front window before the place got busy. My art—somethin' I hadn't touched much since high school—was startin' to come back to life. I found myself drawin' more, thinkin' about maybe gettin' into a local gallery, or at least hangin' somethin' up in the café. Ruth said people liked my style, whatever that meant.

I'd made a few friends, too. There was Greg, who worked in the bookstore next door, always bringin' me new books I never asked for. And Mia, a college student who came in after her classes, always askin' about my latest drawings. We didn't talk about heavy stuff. No gangs, no fights, no Kim.

Kim. I'd stop myself from thinkin' about her, most days. But in quiet moments, especially when the sun started to set over the Bay, I'd wonder where she was. If she'd stayed in Chicago, if she missed me, if she ever got on that bike and just kept ridin'. I didn't reach out, though. Couldn't.

Emily and I still talked, though not as often. She was back home, doin' her thing, probably hangin' out with the old crowd. She'd send me messages, sometimes pictures of the gang or of the old bars we used to haunt. I'd look at 'em for a minute before puttin' my phone down, feelin' a little more distant each time.

My life was quieter now, almost peaceful, but there was still that part of me that felt like somethin' was missin'. Like I'd left a piece of myself back in Chicago, along with Kim. I'd tell myself that it didn't matter—that I was buildin' somethin' new here. But every once in a while, I'd catch myself lookin' out over the water, wonderin' if it was enough.