Always

"No, you're not!"

My phone suddenly fly out of my hand. "Hey!" I sit from the laying down I did just moments ago. "Mo, I know you're upset with me but please don't take it out on my phone, okay?"

Morwenna "Mo" Hattersley has been my best friend since as long as I can remember. Our fathers were college best friends became partners in Jackson and Hattersley and partners, a law firm they've built together for nearly three decades. Our mothers instantly became friends after they met our fathers, had had so many double dates, girls days and nights sent them on the fast train to become best friends too.

And now they're like our extended family. Shared birthdays, celebrations, holidays and vacations.

Morwenna and I, we were truly what people say the opposite faces in the same coin. Being the go-getter, you-only-live-once kinda girl she is, Mo will be the one girl you find bungee-jumping, zip-lining, or do anything adrenaline-related (because adrenaline rush was so addictive, her words not mine, that crazy girl). And every the fashionista, her obsession on fashion world and celebrities is bordering unhealthy. Mo will be the first to know updates on fashion, celeb gossips, and what-oh-so-in on the internet.

But the unhealthy obsession was what make her good at what she's doing as a professional shopper.

Meanwhile I, on the other hand, well, I am me. I, of course, chose to spend my free time hiding behind the pages of romance novels I love so much. Or, laying on my hammock in my parents' backyard, under the sun, listening to some ballad or acoustic songs with my headphone on. Or, had snuggle fest with Boo, my giant brown teddy bear a give from an ex, binge-watched Netflix on the couch.

I still did those, but instead of in the backyard, I have a hanging hammock chair which I put in the corner of my room near the floor to ceiling glass window with the central park view. And I didn't bring Boo with me when I moved out of the house.

I binge-watch Netflix snuggle buddy-less and without the 'chill' part. (You know what I mean). Sigh.

She was the blonde to my brunette.

The skinny to my curvy.

The super model goddess to the plain me.

"Whatever! But you, Bryanna, have to pinky swear me you won't be there!"

Her and her pinky swear. I'm shaking my head in my head.

Yeah, she was the fun to my nerd, all right.

We're in my room. I am sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing my respective pajama--thread bare, very old gray t-shirt with holes, I admit, and flanel pants with smiley face all over them. In the meantime, Lady Bryanna is wrap in black silk dress.

It's crystal that Mo doesn't like my plan. She's not only doesn't like it, she hates it with all of her. Look at how her stilletto ruins my rug with her pacing. That's how she tried to control herself before she'd go ballistic on me.

"But, Mo, I have to do this. I need to do this. Then I'll be done."

At least, I can promise her that.

Hearing the resign in my voice, her pace slows. I know her intention is good, she don't want me to get hurt, again, but she have to understand that I have to do this, for me. For me so I can get my closure and move on with my life. For me because I don't want to have any regret. For me so I can say my goodbye.

What she don't know is--at least not yet-- that from now on, everything won't be the same anymore.

No matter what.

****

*Six months ago*

I close my eyes, massaging my forehead hoping the headache these sheets on my desk brings would lessen. It's only ten in the morning and my head feels like ready to explode. This past couple months, I've been slaving myself on this project for a brand new hotel downtown. I can't complain, though, the paycheck will be worth it.

"Hey, girl, whatsup?" I answer the call after checking the picture on the screen.

"Happy birthday!" she yells, literally in my ear so I have to drag the phone away because I want to keep my eardrum safe.

"Mo, this is the third times you shout it in three hours. And for the third times, I want to say thank you and ask you to stop," I tell her half-amused half-serious.

"And here I am, committed to give it to you twenty-four times. It's your 24th birthday, girl."

Don't I know it. "Will you stop if I ask you nicely?"

"Of course not!"

I roll my eyes. Sometime I think exaggeration is her middle name. "Okay, you know I'm deeply moved by your action, your dedication to remind me of my birthday, but please, Mo, please, instead of calling me, please just text the rest of the congratulations. You know I am in the middle of working my ass off for this project. Please?" I wonder if she can see me through my pleases.

"Oookaaay," she sing-songs. I can hear the amusement in her voice. "See you at Stewart's then. Don't be late. Bye!"

She hung up on me.

****

Stewart's is a popular bar downtown we've been regularly visiting since the early age of drinking. Besides the warm and comfortable vibe, Bradley Stewart, the owner, has consistently have a live music performance three days a week for their evening crowd. As a former rock-god slash bar-owner, Brad wants to provide good food and good music, the two important things in life, he said, at the same time. He wants his place to give those new musicians out there a fighting chance in reaching their dreams, a point to start, to nurture their talent, to introduce themselves to the world.

Now that Brad was planning to retire and finally going to give his wife a vacation he promised her forever ago, he started to include his son, Lincoln, in running this place, who happens to be my older brother's best friend.

Morwenna and some of our college friends are already waiting when I get to the table. Misty, Claire, Glenn and Ben stands and gives me their congratulatory hugs and kisses. Glenn even doing the curtsy when he grab my chair. "Have a seat, milady." He winks before setting on the chair beside me. Always the flirt.

As if on cue, Brad comes to the table singing Happy Birthday, soon my friends joining him and we attracts another patrons' attention which then joining them as well. One of the server, Tris, trailing behind with a mad stack of what I guess are banana pancakes, a candle in the middle. I reaches Mo's hand and mouthed thank you.

This was our ritual, having birthdays here, but even a ritual could always get you emotional, you know. With teary eyes and tender heart, I blow the candle. "Thank you so much, you guys."

"Special treat for my special girl." Brad hugs me. "Happy birthday."

"Happy birthday, little Jackson," Lincoln parrots. Well, it doesn't surprise me I don't notice him standing near. Lincoln always come and go as he please.

"Well, hello there." Is heard through the speaker. "Next number is a special request for our birthday girl. Happy Birthday."

I look at the stage. "Is he new?" a question ask to no one in particular.

"Yeah, he came by and saw me two weeks ago. Asked him to sing a few, thought he was good and he's been performing for two days," answers Brad who's still standing behind me. Lincoln who had stood beside him before is nowhere to be found.

"Just listen to him. I asked him to play something special as your present. But I don't know what song he will play. Guess we'll see. Hope you like it. And again, happy birthday, Sweetheart." He kisses my temple. "I'll leave you to it, then. You guys have fun. On the house tonight."

Before I could protest, he waves his hand bye and head back to his office.

The sound of guitar playing fills the room.

'Let's dance, little stranger, show me secret sins'

With the stage front and center, a foot higher than the rest of the cafe, it's easy to spot the person whom the really smooth voice are belong. Sitting on a stool, an acoustic guitar in hand, his fingers strums the strings effortlessly.

'Won't you dance with me, in my world of fantasy'

'Won't you dance with me ...'

I look at him and there are the most beautiful set of blues. I look, he looks and from the first time those beautiful ocean eyes grabbed my hazels, I feel something flutter inside me. I don't know what, but it compells me to just stare at him.

And listen to his sweet voice.

And I think he knows what is happening in me, because he smirks.

And my oh my ... that little smirk.

Here comes trouble.

****

"What do you think about Lincoln?"

I hear the front door close. "What?" After taking off those killer heels, I prop my dying feet on the coffee table. Still a mystery as to why women would wear them willingly knowing what they could do to your feet.

"Oh, come on." Mo rolls her eyes and plops down beside me on the couch. "We've been to Stewart's forever, Bry, and I've seen the way he looked at you."

I chuckle. "What way, Mo?" Shaking my head I point at her nose. "You're impossible, you know that, right?"

Morwenna bats my finger as she leans to me so we're eye to eye. "No." She did this half whisper half-shriek thing. "You are. I think he likes you."

"And I KNOW he doesn't like me like that. Lincoln is Adrian's best friend, remember?"

"So what?" she asks, again.

"Morwenna, whatever it is you think you see, you're wrong. We didn't really talk. He didn't even see me. Don't you think it would gross him out to date his best friend's little sister?"

The son to a legendary Bradley "Badass" Stewart, Lincoln inherited all his good look and then some. He's like this mystical creature you often read. He exists, his presence so powerful you can't help but to be intrigued, but the constant brooding expression on his face make you want to steer clear from him.

He exuded pure masculinity with this mysterious vibe his unapproachable status, calm and collected, no-nonsense act created. His ability to slip in and out of the room unknowingly making him more appealing to those who love chasing mystery. Me? I told you I prefer romance.

Only a few were brave enough to try to penetrate the Lincoln fort and lives to tell the tale, while we mere mortals were just admiring him from afar and be those who will only know of him.

That is Lincoln Stewart to you, ladies and gentlemen.

"You don't know that. And I'm just trying to help." She shrugs, feigning innocence.

Deep breath. Exhale. "Look, Mo, we talked about this million times, right? I'm ready when I'm ready. It's just the matter of time, anyway. It's not like I want to be single my whole life."

"I know." She slumps against me, her head on my shoulder. "I just want you to have what I have with Tom, Bry."

I must admit that I am jealous of Mo's relationship with her long time boyfriend, Tom. At twenty eight, she already met her love, mapping their future together. It's just a matter of time before he pop the question and whisk her away too.

That's why it's hard for her to accept my choice about my own love life. She saw my reluctance at meeting someone and trying something new as the wrong step to find my man. She said that relationship is the same as playing sport; practice make perfect.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, that's not me. I don't want to waste my time if I know from the start that he was the wrong guy. No sparks. No butterflies. I'd rather wait for the right guy to sweep me off my feet.

But the question is, who is he?

****

The next morning, like every morning before work, I grab my daily dose of caramel macchiato at Hola!, the little cafe in front of my office building. Mac smiles at me from behind the counter. "Your usual, Miss Jackson?"

"You know it." I smile back at him and give him an playful wink. The pimpled-face teenager blushes as he scrambles with my order. After paying for my coffee and my favorite triple chocolate cupcake, I see two kids getting up from a corner table in the back and make my way over to grab it before anyone else can.

Busying myself with scrolling my album from last night, I sellect a few best pics I deem insta-worthy and upload it. My phone pings, notifying that my mom just liked my post. As predicted it begin to ring, mom's smiley face fill up the screen. I swipe to answer.

"How was your birthday, Sweety?"

"It was good, Mom. We went to Stewart's as usual. I got my mountain of banana pancakes, as usual," I reply.

My mom laughs. "You and your pancakes. By the way, you remember we will have your birthday dinner at home this weekend, right? I'll make you your proper birthday cake. Of course it'll be chocolate. And ...." Mom drones. I can recite every words since we always did the same thing for my birthday. Or Adrian's.

She'll have a table full of food enough to feed an army and our favorite cake even though the table will be surrounded by us, Uncle Rob and Aunt Beth, Mo's parents and Mo herself. In Adrian's case, there will be Lincoln. My only cousin, Michael, will make an appearance if he's in the state, when he's not busy galivanting around the world doing his doctor without borders duty.

She's still rambling as I half-listening half-people watching through the window when a cup and a paper bag materializes in front of my line of sight. I follow the fingers that hold it, up, up, up until I clashe with blues that render me speechless. Again.

The wide-eyed woman looks up at him in awe and for a split of second, she's lost all capacity of speech, much like I seem to have.

The wide-eyed woman?

Nope. Me.

Eyes wide and mouth agape like a fish run out of water.

Not a good visual, I'm sure.

Not a good impression in front of this really good guy either.

I think I scarred him for life.

"Sweety, you hear me?"

My mom's voice break the spell I'm in. Lazy grin appears on his handsome face, face I'm sure those TV people love. "Yeah, Mom. Sure. I ... uhm," I stutter. "I ...." Eyes still lock with his, I couldn't look away, I blink. Once. Twice. "Mom, I have to go. Love you." Not sure I touch the right part to end the call, I continue my staring. And blinking.

His clear, blue eyes sparkle with mirth, amusement edge in their shine. "At first I was so sure these were yours, but now I don't know." He shrugs. The lazy grin turns into a full watt smile, blinding me even more. "Ehm, Byanna?"

The way he say my name sending chills down my spine, kick-starting my heart and make it overdrive. In a very good way. And it's a good thing, too, because now my brain is getting enough supply of oxygen it can function somewhat normally again. "Yes?"

Wait! Why do I make it sound like a question? And what am I answering to?

"Your order." He put them on the table then sit on the chair across from me. "I hope you don't mind." His smile don't fade.

Glad I amuse him.

I clear my throat, try to pull myself together after he kinda messed me up for a while there. "Yeah, sure. I don't mind." I gesture to the table, "And thanks for picking them up. I guess they called when I was on the phone."

"It's fine. I was picking up mine anyway. Was standing behind you, actually. Saw and recognized you when you were hunting down the table."

"Hm, okaay."

I don't know what to think about that.

He chuckles. "I'm sorry. I just realized how creepy that sound. And to think you probably don't remember me ...."

Oh, I definitely remember you.

"I was performing at Stewart's last night ...."

I know. I was there, looking at you, listening to your voice.

"I hope you like the song ...."

I bet you don't know I prefer your version now, do you? How could you sing Dance With Me better than Nouvelle Vague?

My phone pings. Stopping him and ending my internal monologue. An email from my assistant, Remi, reminding me I have a meeting in an hour. "I'm sorry. Work's calling. I have to go." I stand and scramble to pick the things that brought him to me. "Thanks again for saving my order."

He stands too. "Sure. And the name's Nathan, by the way."

Then there is that devilish smile again.

Good God.

"Bye, Nate."

I leave him at the corner of the coffee shop so positive that that smile will be hanging around in my mind all day.

****

Work is work. Meetings had keeping me out of the office and to say I am beat was understatement. I am dead on my feet. I dive to the couch as soon as I'm home. Judging by the feel the apartement gives, Morwenna is still out. Which is happening more recently.

My phone rings on the coffee table.

"Hey, there, Cuz." Michael's face fills the screen.

Hi. Give me a sec." I prop a cushion beneath my head.

"You busy?"

"Nope." I pop the p. "Just got home from work."

"Okay, I won't be long then. Just want to say happy birthday to my best cousin in the world." I roll my eyes. "And to remind you that there'll be a package waiting for you this weekend." He winks.

"You know I will hunt your ass down to wherever you are now if this package isn't what I am hoping, right, Mike?" I try to pull my meanest face to threaten him. But everyone knows there'll be nothing that scare the Mighty Michael.

"You're funny," he mocks.

"That was my mean face, you jerk," I quip back.

Laughter filters through the speaker. "You don't have one mean bone in your body, Bry. That one treat was all for me," he retorts.

"Yeah, I know. What I don't know is why are you so mean to me, your best cousin, when your job is fixing broken bodies around the world?" I reply mischievously.

This is how we are. He'd be mean to me, intentionally, and I'd pouted when I was 5, or screamed at him when I was 9, or kicked his shin when I was 12, or ignored him when I was 15. When I am a 24 year old grown up woman? I give back as good as I got.

"Gah, I miss you, Bry. I miss home. I think I'm gonna try to visit before my next assignment. Just don't tell Mom yet, I want to align my duck first."

I notice the bag under his eyes but make no comment about it. I know his happy with his work, but it's starting to take its toll on him. "That's great, Mike. I really hope you can make it. You know we miss you too. The change of scenery will do you good, I'm sure."

"Yeah, yeah. I'm the doctor, remember? Say hi from me to Uncle Seb and Aunt Rose, yeah? And tell Ad to pick his goddamn phone the one time I call," I snicker. "Okay. Love you, Cuz. Happy birthday."

Waving my hand at the screen, I say, "Love you too. Bye."

And then the line is dead.

Checking Mike off the list who had congratulated me on my birthday, I wonder where the hell is my brother?

****

Stewart's still have some crowd when I come. It's ten in the evening, the last meeting was taking more time than I thought, forcing me to bypassed lunch. And now I'm desperate for Stewart's greasy goodness.

Despite the tiredness seeping in my bones, I'm so ecstatic the project is nearly over.

Tris waves and leads me to an available booth in the corner. "Whatcha need, sugar?" She pours a tall glass of water. "You want that weird thing you called coffee? You look like you need a pitcher of it." She arches a brow.

"Thanks, T. But I want your magic greasy burger and fries. I'm super hungry. And, while you're at it, can I get Tony's super duper special chocolate milkshake too?" I puppy dog blink, blink, blink at her.

She shakes her head. "You and your chocolate. And your food. And your body. Where the heck was all those go anyway? And to think the world's fair," Tris grumbles while writing my order.

I laugh. "Because your food has magic here, T, am I right? And I'm sure if you look close enough you'll find them hiding somewhere."

"Find what?" Is heard before I see him. I look behind me to Linc who is walking, no, sauntering this way from the back.

I suddenly feel ... nervous?

"Your girl here." Tris points at me with her thumb.

"Not my girl," he mumbles through gritted teeth.

She don't acknowledge his response and continues, "Is ordering a ton of grease and sugar and I was just asking her where all those demons go. You know I have to struggle with the greens everyday if I want to keep my cholesterol on normal level."

Now it's Linc's turn to ignore her. "What are you doing here?" he asks me, clearly annoyed.

Tris shakes her head at his tone. "That's not the way to talk to a lady, young man. I'll watch my mouth if I were you." And then off she go, leaving me alone with this giant of a man who somehow looks more annoyed than before.

"Why are you here this late, Little Jackson?" he repeats, enunciating the nickname he gave me since I was teenager.

I hate that name.

Lincoln standing there by the table, his six foot something looming over me. "I'm here to eat," I reply, or try to.

He harrumphs, takes a seat across from me, crosses his arms and then, silence. My nerve morph into confusion.

What is he doing?

"Look, Linc. I don't know what I've done to deserve this kind of treatment from you, but I just want to eat in peace."

He just grunts.

Then more silence.

Eyeing the counter, I pray for Tris to bring my food soon so this awkwardness will end.

But no luck. I don't know that he will sit there watching me while I eat, trying my best to avoid his stares.

More awkwardness.

I end up requesting a box to take the food home. I sigh internally.

There goes my food orgasm.

Tris comes with the box, helps me and send a warning glare at Lincoln's way. He, of course, ignores her. "This is your bill, sweetheart." She hands me the receipt.

Before I could reach it, Lincoln grabs the paper. He pulls a fifty out of his wallet and gives them back to Tris. "Come on. I'll drive you home."

I stare at him, unbelieving of what's just happened. He don't give me a chance to process before he grabs my forearm and walks, forcing me to trail behind him like a puppy.

Did he just manhandle me?

I don't care about the fact that his grip doesn't hurt. His touch is surprisingly soft and warm, but rude is rude.

I can not believe he manhandled me!

You Neanderthal prick!

I tear my arm away from his grip when we're in the parking lot, ready to rip him a new one. Hurt or not, he didn't get to do whatever he wanted, not with me.

"What are you doing?" I question, trying so hard to contain my boiling anger and confusion.

He exhales. "I'm taking you home. You shouldn't be Lyfting this late at night."

Oh, really? "So you just manhadle me to your car. What is wrong with you?" I exclaim.

"Nothing's wrong with helping your best friend's little sister get back to her apartment safely." He unlocks his car, opens the passenger door and gestures at me to get in.

The nerve of this man.

I cross my arms across my chest, staring daggers at him and stand my ground. He looks back at me as steady. We do this staring contest, neither want to be the bigger person and let go.

He cocks his brow.

That's when I know I lose this childish battle.

I huff like a bull and stomp my feet before charging to the passenger door. I body-checked him with all my might.

Ouch!

That's hurt. Damn his rock hard body.

Do I not know I just acted like a petulant child? I do.

Does it look like I care? No, it doesn't.

Just as the door close, I look up and see his upper lip tugs at its side. Lincoln bites his bottom lip to restrain it from spreading more.

The sight stuns me.

Was it a smile I see?

Huh.

****