We were in that “wormy” stage. You know the one. We weren’t “together,” not officially. There were no titles, no ring, no promises. But we were connecting. And I’d learned, through the brutal, bloody education of my restaurant days, a simple, goddamn fact: if you are sleeping with someone, you are in a relationship. It doesn’t matter what you call it. The biology doesn’t give a shit about your labels.
But I was a man. A hungry, stupid, and confident animal. And Kelly? She was just the little Mormon girl who’d been teaching me the ropes.
It happened at Deschutes Brewery. The place was packed. Standing room only. The air smelled of hops, sweat, and the loud, desperate energy of a Friday night in Bend.
And then, she sat down.
A blonde. Beautiful. A smile that could stop traffic and start a war. She glanced at me, I glanced at her, and the electricity just… snapped. She turned her body toward me, that universal, silent language of “I am open for business.”
I had her full attention. And I turned it on. The “James” routine. The confidence was dripping off me like sweat. I was charming, I was funny, I was the king of the goddamn bar. I didn’t see anything else. I didn’t want to see anything else. We talked for two hours. I was touching her arm, leaning in, closing the deal.
And then, the fatal error.
I leaned in to nibble on her ear. A classic move. And as my teeth grazed her lobe, I felt a disturbance in the force. A weight. A set of eyes burning a hole in the side of my head.
I pulled back. I turned to my left.
And there was Kelly.
She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t throwing a drink. She was just… staring. And the look on her face wasn’t anger. It was disappointment. Pure, unadulterated, soul-crushing disappointment. She looked at me like I was a dog that had just shit on the rug after she’d spent months training it.
She didn’t say a word. She just looked at me, shook her head a tiny bit, and walked away. Into the crowd. Gone.
That was the last time I ever saw Kelly in “relationship mode.” The bridge didn’t just burn; it vaporized.
And the blonde? The prize I’d won? I took her home. And it was a disaster. An absolute, crazy, disgusting disaster. She was into biting. And not the sexy kind. And she soiled the bed. A beautiful, ugly, and completely instant karma for my sins.
Years went by. The timeline gets blurry, like a windshield covered in rain and dead bugs.
I moved on. She moved on. But in a small town like Bend, you never really escape. I’d come back to visit, stay at the McMenamins St. Francis, and we’d meet. For a Bloody Mary. Just two old veterans of a private war, comparing scars.
Sometimes, late at night, she’d drive over to my hotel. Everyone else in her life—husband, boyfriend, whoever the hell she had waiting at home—was asleep. And I’d sneak out to her truck. We wouldn’t go anywhere. We’d just sit there, or drive around the dark streets, hiding. I never asked who was waiting for her. I assumed there was someone. There was always someone.
She got married. Twice, I think. Maybe to a cowboy. Maybe to a cop. I know the State Police officer who eventually arrested me for my DUI, he was in the mix somewhere, before he left town. It’s a small, incestuous, and completely fucked-up ecosystem.
She hated flying. Hated it. But when I moved to Hawaii, she got on a plane. She flew across the goddamn ocean. I met her at the lagoon. And we picked up right where we left off. Of course, she had a boyfriend waiting for her back at the Marriott. I was getting the “sloppy seconds,” the leftovers. But I took it. Because I’m a taker. And that trip? That was the beginning of my own death spiral, the road that led straight to my Honolulu DUI. She was a woman who paved the road to trouble with good intentions and great sex.
And now?
She’s independent. Strong. Runs a dog grooming shop called “Precious Paws.” Prides herself on looking young. But the conversations… Christ. The marbles are rattling around in that head. I have no idea what’s happening in there half the time.
I know she loved me. A deep, fancy, and completely destructive declaration of love. She was always willing to take me back, at any opportunity.
But she never really recovered. I get the texts. “ESA hide and I hope so.” Gibberish. And the pictures.
She sent me a picture once. The top of her hand. She had carved my name, JAMES, into her skin. A beautiful, bloody, and completely insane act of devotion.
And then, a while later, another picture. She’d taken a razor and cut it all up. Scrambled it with a bunch of check marks and slashes so you couldn’t read the name anymore. Scar tissue over scar tissue.
She got a tattoo ring on her finger, trying to lock something down that was never going to stay.
She was the lost one of her family. Her father, he had the money. They bought her the house, paid for the mistakes, always trying to save her. I didn’t see the damage back then. I just saw the fun.
And me? As a male pig, as an opportunist, if I went back to Bend today, I’d jump at the chance to get back with her. Just for a night. Just for the connection.
But I know the truth. I see the trouble. I see the damage in that beautiful, blonde head. The drinking. The extra drugs. The quiet, desperate slide into oblivion.
And unfortunately, I probably didn’t help. I probably added to the rot instead of clearing it out.
She was a delicate flower that everyone wanted to sniff, to touch, to take a piece of. And I used that. I gathered the nectar and walked away.
She was one of my finest teachers, inside and outside of the bedroom.
But goddamn, I left a mess in that classroom.
