The Crossroad Country Bar

The car slowed as it turned off the gravel road and into the makeshift parking lot of the Crossroad Country Bar. Mud-splattered trucks and sun-faded motorcycles lined the lot, their windshields catching the last golden rays of the setting sun.

Gregory leaned back slightly, eyeing the worn neon sign as it flickered against the growing dusk. It was still early evening, but the warmth of spring lingered in the air, carrying hints of cut grass and distant bonfires. He rolled down the window and took a breath—pine, dust, and something almost sweet that reminded him of memories he had long buried.

"We're here, sir," Jonah said, shifting the car into park.

Gregory gave a slight nod and reached for the door handle. "Thanks. Wait here."

He stepped out, his polished shoes crunching against the gravel, though he barely registered the sound. The atmosphere was alive with country music and laughter leaking through thick wooden doors. He paced slowly outside the bar, wondering if he was chasing ghosts. Any man in his right mind would leave the past where it belonged—buried.

He paused beneath the purple glow of the bar sign, staring at the door as if it might open on its own and solve his dilemma. Inside was the woman he'd tried to forget—the one who lingered in his dreams and lived in the quiet space between guilt and want.

As he moved to push the door open, it swung forward on its own, and two giggling women tumbled out, nearly crashing into him.

"Oh! Hello!" they sang in unison, clearly intoxicated and admiring him from head to toe.

He caught the door with one hand and nodded politely as they stumbled past and into a waiting car. He was grateful they weren't driving.

Inside, warmth and noise hit him like a wave. The bar was buzzing with life—glasses clinking, pool balls cracking, and boots stomping lightly on the worn wooden floors. Amber light softened the space, stretching across exposed beams and faded photographs. The scent of grilled food and stale cigarettes lingered in the air, mixing with the hum of country music and slow-drawn lyrics.

He scanned the crowd, his pulse quickening.

There she was, quietly waiting, looking as out of place as a memory that refused to fade. Her golden hair caught the light just enough to glow. A half-empty glass of water sat untouched in front of her. She wasn't scrolling or reading. Just… sitting. Waiting.

His feet moved before he decided to approach.

"Greg!" she greeted, standing quickly. Her voice was warm, her smile guarded. She wrapped her arms around him in a hug that lingered a second too long.

"It's been so long," she added, stepping back.

"It has," he said, taking in her looks. "You look great."

"So do you." Her eyes searched his face. "Come on, sit down."

They slid into the booth across from each other, and a waitress appeared almost instantly, her red lips curving into a practiced smile. He ordered a whiskey while Jane asked for a beer.

When the waitress left, she didn't wait. "So," she began, leaning forward, "I see you got my letter."

"I did," he said, emotion catching unexpectedly in his throat. He cleared it quietly.

"I tried to call," she admitted. "But you changed your number."

"My grandfather did," he said bitterly, taking a breath.

"'Grandfather'?" she repeated, her smile edged with amusement.

He pretended not to notice, letting the comment hang in the air as he leaned back against the booth. She leaned back as well, allowing her shoulders to rest against the leather cushion.

"I wasn't sure you'd show."

"I almost didn't," he admitted, holding her gaze. "But here I am."

"And is that a good thing?" she asked, her voice softer now, curious.

He smiled, but the waitress returned before he could answer. She set their drinks down with unnecessary flair, her hand lingering on the edge of his glass.

"Let me know if you need anything else," she said, her gaze locked on him.

Jane's brows lifted in amusement as the waitress finally walked away. "Still have your charms, I see."

He laughed. "So it seems."

"Uh-huh," she said, sipping her beer.

"When did you get back?" he asked, changing the subject.

"A few days ago." She eyed him thoughtfully. "My condolences."

"You don't mean it."

"I do!" she said defensively. "I may have hated the old man, but I would never rejoice in his death."

He watched her silently. Something about her was different.

"How was Asia?" he asked, steering the conversation elsewhere as he reached for his drink.

She raised her brows in surprise. "You knew where I was?!"

"Panaji."

She gasped, stunned into silence, her features wavering between soft astonishment and simmering frustration.

"Why didn't you contact me?" she demanded.

"I tried. But… you seemed happy. I felt that re-entering your world would have been… unfair."

"It took me a long time to forgive you," she said, clearing her throat, avoiding eye contact, staring at her beer. "At some point, the blame shifted from George to you."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you didn't have a choice back then. We were kids… I get it now. It just took me a long time to realize it."

"I wasn't expecting to hear from you," he confessed.

"I missed you," she said honestly and bluntly. "For 1,411 days I tried to convince myself that I didn't…"

He blinked. So he wasn't the only one counting.

"But now I'm back!" she said, attempting to sound cheerful.

"Why now?" His fingers tapped lightly on the glass.

She looked away. "Because I saw you."

He furrowed his brows.

"On the news. At the funeral… with her." Her voice cracked, a sharp edge returning. "You didn't look as happy as I thought you would be. So, I thought maybe the door was still open."

He continued watching her silently. She always had a way of cutting straight through him.

"I've missed you," she repeated softly, reaching across the table, fingers curling over his. "More than I realized."

His throat tightened. The contact sent him reeling—not with lust, but with the weight of reality. Every part of him wanted to echo her words, but he managed to hold himself back.

"Jane—"

"I know you're married," she said. "I didn't come to wreck your life, Greg... I just came for the truth."

His breath caught slightly, but before he could respond, his phone vibrated on the table.

He glanced at the screen.

James.

Great timing, he thought, grateful for the excuse. "I have to take this."

She nodded, her expression unreadable now.

He stood and turned towards the door, pressing the phone to his ear as he stepped back into the spring night.