There's One Thing I Like About Him

Chapter 25

Heathcliff

The night feels too loud. Neon lights flicker outside, casting strange shadows through the windows, and the music thumps like a heartbeat—too fast, too frantic. I lean back in the creaky barstool, feeling its uneven legs wobble beneath me. The smell of stale beer and cheap cologne hangs in the air.

I've been here too many nights to count. Same bar, same faces, same drink. A whiskey, neat—nothing fancy, just something to burn its way down and settle the quiet inside me. I take a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through my chest as I glance around.

People laugh, talk too loudly, spilling out their lives, but it all feels distant, like a film playing in the background. I'm here, but I'm not really here. Just going through the motions, waiting for the next moment to pass, waiting for something to shift.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice her. A woman—tall, confident, with dark hair that tumbles over her shoulders—walking straight toward me. Her eyes are sharp, lips curved into something that's either a smile or a challenge, I can't tell. She leans against the bar, close enough that I can smell her perfume, something floral and too sweet.

"Hey," she says, her voice low, smooth, like she's used to getting attention.

I don't answer. I don't even look up. Just stare into my glass, swirling the amber liquid as if it holds the answers to everything I don't care enough to ask.

"You look like you could use some company," she tries again, a little more insistently now, her tone softening.

I don't bite. Another slow sip of whiskey, and the warmth settles in again, like a shield. Pretty girls like her—they used to matter. Used to make something stir. But now? I don't even know why I can't be bothered.

It's not that she's not attractive—she is. She's exactly the kind of woman I'd have turned my head for once. But now, I don't feel a thing. Maybe it's the routine. Maybe it's the exhaustion. Maybe it's just me.

As she walks away, I close my eyes for a moment, and suddenly, Trisha's face flickers in my mind—out of nowhere, like a punch to the gut. Her smile, soft and unguarded, and the way she looked at me the day I confessed.

I remember that day like it was yesterday. I'd finally worked up the courage to tell her. The words were awkward, clumsy, but they were real. I told her how I felt, how being around her made things feel a little less heavy, how I hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. Her eyes widened, surprised but... there was something there. I felt it.

But then Isabelle's voice creeps in like poison, disrupting the memory. I remember her laughing when I told her about Trisha. "Come on, Cliff, really? You're not serious about her, are you?" she'd said, twirling her wine glass between her fingers like she was talking about a game, not a person.

"Just play with her heart for a while. She's sweet, sure, but you don't get attached to girls like Trisha."

I grit my teeth, the taste of that moment bitter in my mouth. Isabelle always knew how to twist things, make everything feel like a joke, like nothing mattered. She made it sound so easy—manipulate, play, toss it away when it stops being fun. And for a while, I let myself get caught in her web, told myself it didn't mean anything. That maybe Trisha didn't mean anything.

But she did. She still does.

I shake the thought away, trying to drown it with another sip of whiskey, but it lingers. I didn't play with Trisha's heart, not really. I couldn't. But I never did right by her either. And now, it feels too late for anything else.