The Separation
Cross POV
This is what hell must feel like.
Cross’s inner thoughts were like a constant form of torture lately that just wouldn’t let him go. It didn’t seem to matter what he was doing, or where he was, his mind and tar-black heart managed to somehow drag him even lower.
Emotionally, that was. So was his life now.
The filled-to-capacity Chicago nightclub was supposed to be the hottest place in the city. At least, that’s what everybody said when Cross asked. It certainly had enough people partying inside to say it was popular.
A good place to escape.
Somewhere life couldn’t touch them.
Just what Cross thought he needed.
Yet, there he sat in a back booth, a full glass of whiskey untouched in front of him, and entirely stuck inside his own head and heart. Not even the conversation between his two friends could drive him out of his thoughts enough to engage them. The great music and beautiful, dancing women with dresses short enough to show off peeks of their ass cheeks did nothing for him, either.
Six months in Chicago—six months without Catherine—and one might think Cross would have finally left New York, and her, behind. Life was not so simple. His heart was also a fickle bitch.
“Yo, Cross.”
He blinked out of his depressing thoughts, and looked at his friend. Zeke sat beside him in the booth, while Tommaso sat alone on the other side. Both guys looked at him like he had grown a second head or something.
“What?” Cross asked.
“Man, you’re out of it tonight, huh?” Zeke asked.
“He’s like this a lot, really,” Tommaso said.
Cross gave the youngest of the three a look of warning. “I don’t remember anyone asking you, Tom.”
“Still said it.”
“Be careful, Tom,” Cross said, smirking, “or I might let one of the bouncers know your ID is a fake.”
“Mob-owned joint,” Tommaso countered. “Not worried about it.”
Cross figured. He turned to Zeke instead, saying, “It’s just been a long day, man.”
“Sure,” Zeke replied.
Zeke didn’t sound like he really believed it, though. Honestly, Cross hadn’t been making much of an effort to hide his shitty moods, either. His troubles were on his sleeve for everybody to see, lately.
“It’s your first night in the city,” Cross told Zeke, “so don’t be worrying about me, man.”
Zeke scoffed. “First, how can I even look out for you if you won’t talk to me about shit, huh? As for the second thing—I’ve got a couple of weeks to bug the shit out of you if you want to do this the hard way, Cross. Better to get it over with now.”
Cross chuckled. “You’re a fucker.”
“Kind of have to be when my best friend is living a couple of states away from me, now.”
“I like him,” Tommaso said, tipping his glass in Zeke’s direction.
Cross ignored Tommaso, and looked at Zeke again. “I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
He didn’t—nor was he interested in—getting the first degree from his friends. Besides, he didn’t talk feelings. He just wasn’t the type.
It wasn’t his style.
Not giving Zeke a chance to question him further, Cross pushed out of the booth. “I’ve got to go take a piss.”
Neither of the guys moved to follow Cross. Men weren’t like women who always seemed to need to use the bathroom in groups.
Like a fucking book club for bathrooms.
Not bothering to chat more with his friends before he left, Cross weaved in and out of the dancing people on the main floor of the club. The place was so full that it was starting to feel a little claustrophobic.
Suffocating, even.
Soon, Cross was closed in the men’s bathroom. He relieved himself at the furthest urinal from the drunk trying to figure out where his piss was supposed to go.
A fucking shame, really.
Men like him—criminals—were labeled stains on society, but there was that stupid drunk. Shitfaced, and fucking stumbling around like a fool. At least men like him didn’t get smashed and make public scenes of themselves.
They did have standards.
Cross zipped up, and headed for the sinks. He took a little bit longer to wash his hands, but that was simply because he wasn’t ready to head back to the table just yet. Zeke would have more questions. He would push and prod until he got something from Cross that satisfied him. It was just how the two were in their friendship.
This time, he wished that Zeke wouldn’t do that at all. He didn’t want to talk.
Not about what sent him to Chicago. Not about New York. Not about Catherine. None of it.
Cross stared at his reflection in the mirror.
The bruises from Dante’s beating were finally gone—it had only taken a couple of weeks for those to yellow, and heal. He needed a fucking haircut, but the barber he preferred was in New York, and he didn’t trust anybody yet in Chicago to do it.
He kind of depended on Zeke to look out for Camilla while Cross wasn’t close enough to do it. He missed his mother’s cooking on Sunday afternoons like nothing else. He wished the calls he made to Calisto were enough to satisfy his need to have his step-father close, but they weren’t even close.
Nothing was good enough.
Chicago wasn’t New York.
The people here could never replace the people there.
Mostly, he missed Catherine.
Cross met his own gaze in the mirror. All over again, he was stuck reminding himself that this was for the best.
For her.
Even if it fucking killed him …
She’s better off.
She needs to get better.
She can’t do that with you.
It was his mantra on repeat.
Cross headed out of the bathroom, and unsurprisingly, found Zeke waiting for him. His friend leaned against the wall across from the bathroom. Cross joined him.
“I’m fine,” he said again.
Zeke nodded. “I know you’re not.”
“Yeah, well …”
“Yeah,” Zeke echoed.
A girl with a pretty face walked past them, and eyed Cross the whole way. She didn’t even attempt to hide her interest in the slightest.
“Maybe something like that is what you need,” Zeke murmured, eyeing the girl’s backside. “If you don’t want to talk your shit out, then why not try fucking it out with somebody?”
“Maybe,” Cross replied.
He headed in the opposite direction than the woman had gone.