1
“Oh my god. Sam! Yes!”
I groan, dragging the pillow over my head hoping it could somehow muffle the echo of my brother’s very vocal sex life.
They’ve been at it for hours. Not continuously, thank God, but enough that every brief silence has me holding my breath like maybe, maybe they’re done. But no. There’s always a new round. Like they’re trying to qualify for the Olympic team in marital enthusiasm. Between meals, nap schedules, and bedtime routines, somehow, they keep finding time to passionately remind each other they’re in love. All over the house. That we share.
“Charlie,” Sam groans now, low and rough like a soundbite from a bad romance audiobook.
That’s my cue.
I shove the pillow aside and snatch my book, phone, and headphones, stomping to the balcony. I shut the door behind me, but the glass might as well be tissue paper. I don’t stop there. I take the stairs down, cut across the backyard, ignore the glow of the pool lights, and head for the one place no one dares interrupt this late at night. The barn.
The door creaks open and I slip through. It’s blessedly quiet. Just the soft shuffle of hay and the settling groans of old wood. I climb the ladder to the loft, my unofficial second bedroom. There’s a cot up here with decent bedding, a lamp, a stack of paperbacks, and, most importantly, no sex soundtrack.
I sit down hard, exhale.
I really am happy for them. I am. Sam and Charlie deserve the kind of love that consumes them. But their happiness is a mirror I don’t want to look into too long. Every kiss they steal, every soft laugh that drifts through the walls, just carves out the hollow in my chest a little deeper. Even Liam, my ridiculous cousin, has someone now. Or did before he screwed up everything.
And me? I’ve got a cot in a barn and a front-row seat to everyone else's happily-ever-after.
Cool.
Real cool.
I try to focus on my book, but the words blur. I’ve read the same sentence six times and couldn’t tell you a single thing it said. My brain keeps circling the same drain, dipping into thoughts I don’t want to touch and memories I’m trying to keep boxed up.
Eventually, I give up and grab my phone. Social media: the modern-day anesthetic.
I scroll mindlessly, thumbing past selfies, engagement announcements, toddlers covered in spaghetti sauce, gym thirst traps, and a shocking number of before and after kitchen renovations. None of it sticks. None of it cuts through the fog.
Until I see a post from Will.
Well, technically, it’s from the bar’s account, but something about it feels like him. The caption is short, a little sarcastic, a little proud. Just like Will. There’s no selfie, no tag. Just a photo of the newly redone lot behind the bar.
He’s turned the space into something almost beautiful. Rustic string lights, mismatched picnic tables, a few whiskey barrels serving as makeshift high tops. But the focus of the shot is the mechanical bull. Polished. Centered. Waiting. I stare at the image for longer than I should, my thumb hovering over the like button but not quite pressing it.
It’s ridiculous. It’s just a post. A dumb promotional post for a honkytonk bar. But because it’s Will’s bar, I care.
I glance at the time glowing at the top of my screen. Just past eleven. The bar’s still open. My teeth catch my bottom lip, worrying it for a beat before I make up my mind.
I park out front just after midnight. The town’s gone quiet, curled up for the night except this block. No, this corner still hums with music and laughter, the glow of neon signs splashing across the sidewalk. If you’re under fifty, this is where you are on a Friday night. Honestly? Even a few over-fifty regulars look livelier than I feel.
I sidestep through the crowd, weaving around couples and cowboys, the scent of whiskey heavy in the air.
I spot him before he sees me. Impossible not to, really. He’s all broad shoulders and unapologetic confidence, standing there like the world ought to thank him for showing up. That camel jacket does nothing to soften him; it only sharpens the edges, casts him in gold. His white shirt is open just enough to show that ridiculous chest, the dip of his collarbone, and a gold chain that shouldn’t look good on anyone but somehow does on him.
His face? Infuriating. Square jaw dusted with stubble, like he shaved yesterday and didn’t bother today. That mouth? Smirking like he knows secrets I don’t. His eyes, narrowed slightly, are fixed on something I can’t see. He looks like he walked straight out of a country song written by a woman who should know better, and yet here I am, heart doing that stupid skip like I’m the fool in the lyrics.
I hate that he makes me feel like this. Like I’m winded just looking at him. Like I remember everything I’m supposed to forget. Like maybe I never forgot it at all.
And then he turns. Just a shift of his shoulders, a tilt of his head, and suddenly his gaze locks on mine.
Oh god.
He sees me.
And that ache in my chest? It explodes.
