My gaze drifts, restless, until it snags.
Not on him. On the ripple he creates. A pocket of the room shifts, a woman’s laughter pitches higher, and my eyes follow the sound to its source. East. He’s canted against the jukebox, the lazy line of his shoulders so achingly familiar it’s a physical blow. He flashes a grin at a brunette, the effortless, knee-weakening grin that promises nothing but trouble. It’s a performance I’ve seen a thousand times. The one that never, not once, has been for me.
A hot, ugly knot twists deep in my gut. He hasn’t seen me. Of course he hasn’t. I’m a phantom, a whisper in a room where he’s the main event. Humiliation prickles under my skin, sharp and venomous. It feels like a betrayal. Declan is gone, and I’m still here, wanting his best friend. For a split second, I see his face—blood, shock, and a promise that still won’t let me go. I blink, and he’s gone, but the guilt stays. The thought makes my stomach clench, and the decision settles like a shard of glass inside me.Fine. If he won’t see me, someone will.
My eyes find Malachi. A walking monolith of ink and authority. A mistake forged in a desperate moment when I’d confused rebellion with freedom. He’s not a man; he’s a statement. A weapon. Right now, I’m searching for anything sharp enough to wield.
As if on cue, the bar door bursts open. Candace. She’s a storm in human form, fury etched into the tight line of her shoulders.
The words escape me in a venomous whisper. “What a bitch.”
Frankie’s exhale is a slow, knowing cloud of smoke. Her gaze cuts to me, sharp and without pity. “Takes one to know one.” It’s not an insult. It’s a mirror, and I want to shatter it. She gives me one last look, then turns and drifts toward the bar, leaving me to stew in my venom.
Then I see him move. Malachi, his attention snagged by Candace’s wake. He’s going after her. In three steps, he’ll pass me, his focus a laser on another woman. He will look right through me.
Panic, cold and suffocating, claws up my throat, stealing my breath. No. Not again. Not after watching East turn to someone else without even seeing me. I will not be invisible in my life.
I step into his path, a pawn intercepting a king. The words that spill from my lips are a poisonous sugar I was taught to serve. It’s a role I play on instinct. “Kai, where are you going, baby?”
Pathetic, the voice in my head hisses, and it sounds like my father’s. This isn’t power. This is surrender.
He doesn’t even flinch. His eyes remain fixed on the door, his jaw a granite line. I’m nothing. An obstacle. The desperation becomes a physical force, and my fingers curl around the unyielding muscle of his forearm. The contact is a shock—the muscle is hard as stone, cold even through his shirt, and utterly indifferent to my touch. I tug, a pathetic, silent plea to be seen.
“Come on…”
“Leave me alone, Darla.”
His voice is quiet, devoid of heat. It’s the finality that breaks me. The words don’t slice; they shatter something deep inside. The air evacuates my lungs. Somewhere, someone laughs sounding too sharp, too close. I don’t know if it’s real or just in my head. The noise of the bar—the music, the laughter, theshouting—blurs into a dull, roaring wave in my ears, and I can feel the weight of a hundred invisible eyes. The performance is over. I’m just a girl with her hand on a man who doesn’t want her, and the shame is a fire consuming me from the inside out. I snatch my hand back as if burned, spinning on my heel, needing to run before I disintegrate.
As I spin away from the crushing finality of Malachi’s words, my eyes, blurred with shame, catch on Frankie across the room. She’s already moving, pushing off the barstool with a purpose that says she saw this coming seconds before I did. Her expression isn’t one of surprise, but of grim confirmation. She always knew when the air shifted. Like she could smell heartbreak before it hit. Before I can take another step or completely disintegrate, her hand closes around my elbow. Not hard and cold like his, but firm and warm. Frankie. Her arm links with mine, a quiet support through the chaos. She doesn’t speak. Just pulls me toward the door, shielding me with her body. I lean into her, a fraction of an inch, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel completely alone in the fall.
The moment we cross the threshold, the noise breaks like surf behind us. I gasp like I’ve been underwater too long. The humid night air hits my face, thick with the smell of damp earth and distant exhaust, dragging me back into my skin. On the porch, under the dim, buzzing glow of a flickering bulb, I finally draw a ragged breath. Frankie releases me but stays close, her presence a silent promise.
“I don’t know what I’m allowed anymore,” I whisper, the words swallowed by the chirping of crickets.
Frankie leans her hip against the railing, the cherry of her cigarette glowing in the dark. “You’re allowed to be a mess,” she says, her voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “You’re allowed to be here, and you don’t have to prove a damn thing.”
The simple kindness of it cracks the dam. A hot pressure builds behind my eyes, and I clench my jaw against the burn in my throat. “Thanks for inviting me,” I manage, my voice rough. “I needed a night that wasn’t… his.” Every night has belonged to my father since that night.
Frankie’s smile is small and knowing in the dim light, a little sad. “I had a feeling you did,” she says, her tone making it sound less like a guess and more like a fact she’d simply observed. Her hand finds my back, a solid, grounding weight between my shoulder blades. “Then let’s make it yours,” she murmurs, bumping her shoulder against mine. “You were always a menace when no one was looking, you know.”
A choked, watery laugh escapes me. “What are you talking about?”
Frankie exhales a plume of sweet-smelling smoke toward the stars. “Remember sophomore year, when you tried to light that candle in chemistry class?”
I groan, the memory a flash of mortification. “It was aromatherapy. For academic focus.”
“It was a fire hazard.”
“It was lavender.”
She snorts. “It was a panic attack in wax form. I still don’t know how you convinced Mr. Henley it was part of a self-care assignment.”
“I was grieving the loss of my GPA.”
Frankie laughs, low and wicked. “You had a B+.”
“Exactly. Practically rock bottom.”
