A month ago, this would've been my favorite kind of easy. Tourist girls looking for their small-town adventure story. No messy feelings, no morning-after awkwardness. Just another chapter in someone else's vacation memoir.
Come on, Miller. Remember the script.
"Lucky you found me then." I let my mouth curve into a smile that used to be instinct. "Consider me your personal tour guide to all of Hallow's End's worst decisions."
The brunette, Kenzie—I think—leans in. "Really?"
"Oh yeah. I know all the secret spots." The words taste stale. But they're giggling, so I guess the performance is working. "First stop, tequila shots. Joey!"
They cluster around me like moths to a particularly dim flame. Lucy's hand finds my arm, and Charlie laughs at everything I say. It should feel good. A win. Something I can hold onto.
But Charlie's laugh isn't the one I want to hear. Lucy's perfume makes me think of lavender and citrus and everything I'm trying to forget. And Kenzie . . . well, she's not looking at me with bright blue eyes.
Fuck.
"Another round!" I call out, too loud. Because if I keep drinking, if I stay in character long enough, I'll remember how to be the guy who wanted this.
"You must work out," Charlie purrs, her fingers tracing my bicep. A year ago, that touch would've been the start of something. Now it makes me want to shower.
"Sometimes." I scan the bar.Dammit, where is James?I need backup. Need—
"Caleb!" His voice cuts through the noise, and thank fuck, finally.
"James!" The forced enthusiasm in my tone is obvious, even to me. "Come meet Charlie, Lucy, and . . ." I pause, feigning forgetfulness as I turn to Kenzie. "Sorry babe, what was your name again?"
"Kenzie," she purrs, but her attention shifts to James instantly. Good. Watching her strike out with my emotionally constipated best friend will distract me from this hollow performance I'm giving.
"So,you'rethe famous James," she says, all bedroom eyes and strategic touching. "Caleb was telling us you own your own business."
Behind her, I give James encouraging nods.
Come on, man. Take the bait. Show me how to move the hell on.
"Not really." He barely glances at her.
"He's the best," I jump in, because silence means thinking, and thinking is dangerous tonight. "You should see him handle a wrench."
"I'd love to see your garage sometime," Kenzie suggests. "Maybe you could . . . show me around?"
James extracts himself from her grip with ease. "Actually, Caleb here knows way more about tools than I do."
"Oh?" She's not taking the hint. "But surely you could—"
"Caleb's the real expert," James interrupts, already backing away towards the bar. "He was just telling me about his novel. The one about the bartender with a double life?"
"Navy SEAL," I correct, falling into the familiar made up story. "It's based on my time in the service."
"You were in the Navy?" Charlie asks, clearly intrigued.
Of course she is. Because she doesn't know my most impressive mission was beating Matt's high score inMario Kart. Because she wants the story, not the truth. No one ever sticks around for the real thing anyway.
Except Ivy.
I launch into another completely fictional mission. The girls lean in closer, hanging on every word, and I hate how easy this is. How simple it would be to just be this person again. The one who makes up stories and stays detached from anythingreal.
Night blurs into a haze of tequila shots and hollow laughter. The girls are dancing now, all grinding hips and raised arms, putting on a show that would've had old-Caleb on his knees. But all I can think about is that fucking dance lesson. Ivy in that tiny white dress, her body moving against mine like she was made to fit there.
James retreats into his whiskey, that familiar haunted flicker in his eyes that screamsDaphne. Something dark twists in my gut, not because he's spiraling, but because I recognize that look. Saw it in my own reflection this morning, right before I convinced myself I was imagining things.
