Maybe he’s already back.
Maybe he’s in town right now.
And maybe…
Okay, stop thinking about him.
Stop.
But I don’t think that’s possible.
At all.
Because as soon as we enter the bar and glance around the industrial-looking space with low-hanging light bulbs, rough brick walls and metal beams, I catch sight of something.
A baseball cap.
It’s too dark in here to tell the color of it.
But I don’t need the light in order to do that. I know what color it is.
It’s gray.
Like all the other things in his life – his workout sneakers, his soccer cleats, his sweaters, his sweatpants.
His t-shirts.
Yeah, he has a bunch of gray t-shirts.
In fact, I’m wearing one now, under my chunky sweater, his t-shirt that I stole.
It was a long time ago, back when he’d just moved to California for college. I went into his room and snooped and well, snitched a couple of his t-shirts that he’d left behind.
Anyway, the point is that he likes gray.
And that he’s taken to wearing a baseball cap ever since he went pro, so as to have a bit of privacy in these parts where they worship soccer more than any other sport, and hence him.
So I know that baseball cap.
I know.
The bar is super crowded though, jam-packed with bodies and saturated with the smell of liquor and foggy smoke. So it’s not as if I can see very clearly.
But my witchy heart tells me that it’s him.
Even though it’s impossible that it could be him.
Because he should be at home, with Sarah. I’m assuming she’s back too since Arrow is here.
Sarah is always where Arrow is; they’re inseparable.
Besides, bars are not his scene anyway. Anything that interferes with his practice and training is a definite no-no. Which means he very rarely drinks and never stays out partying.
But I have to see.
I have to confirm.
Callie is introducing us all to her friend who let us in, Will the bartender, but I murmur a distracted excuse and leave them. I’ll explain everything later. Like, in five minutes when I’m back after confirming that it’s really not him.
And then, I’m standing there.
I’m standing at a place – in the middle of the bar – where I have a clear view of the baseball cap and the one who’s wearing it.
He’s tucked away in a corner, the owner of the cap, partially hidden behind a bricked pillar.
Although tucked away is a misleading description.
He’s too big and tall to be tucked away anywhere, much less in a makeshift corner of a bar.
In reality, he’s bursting out of there, that nook, his shoulders specifically.
His shoulders.
My heart leaps at the sight of those shoulders. They are broad but not overly massive. They’re sleek, and even through the layers of clothes they appear sculpted and muscular.
Like his.
But that’s not the thing that gets me, no.
Not the shoulders that could only belong to him or the baseball cap that hides the good view of his face, it’s the layers of clothing that he has on.
One layer specifically.
A vintage leather jacket.
It’s black. Well, it’s so old now that it’s weathered and gray.
I love it.
I love how dashing it makes him look. How handsome. I love the vibe it gives off, dangerous and daredevil-ish.
And he wears it all the time when he rides his motorcycle.
Yeah, he has a motorcycle.
Despite all the ways that he is so careful and disciplined because of his sport, he rides a Ducati.
Or at least, he used to.
Back when he still lived in St. Mary’s.
When he left it all behind after leaving for California though, I was devastated. I bet Sarah told him to. She never liked his bike and his jacket.
I cried for the Ducati he left in the garage, covered up with a white sheet. I cried for his vintage leather jacket that I never really knew what he did with. It wasn’t in his closet – I checked.
So seeing it now, it hits me like a storm.
No, not like a storm.
The sight of that leather jacket explodes in my stomach and sends warmth rushing through my veins.
Warmth and coziness.
It’s him.
It’s my Arrow.
God, he’s here.
Here.
I press a hand on my stomach as a breath escapes me and my lips tug up into a smile.
But my smile doesn’t reach fruition.
My lips stop midway when I realize something.
I realize that his face is dipped.
It’s dipped toward someone. A girl whose back is facing me.
For a second I think it’s Sarah.
It has to be. Who else would it be, honestly?
But it’s not her.
The girl Arrow is looking at isn’t Sarah.
Because Sarah doesn’t have blonde hair. Her hair is dark like mine. Only my hair is curly – wild and savage – and hers is straight and shiny. But we at least have the exact same shade.
And neither is Sarah that short.
I am that short, as short as the girl Arrow is looking at.