Not considering opening a new bottle of scotch alone at noon.
My phone dings with a text from Milton.
Milton:You have a package at the desk.
I wonder for a beat if he messaged the wrong person, but this is Milton. He doesn’t make mistakes.
I set the bottle of scotch down on the counter. This isn’t me. Turning to alcohol—I didn’t even do that a decade ago. I’m not sure what’s so different this time around. Maybe because my emotions just shut off last time as a means of self-preservation, and this time I’m actively trying to avoid them.
I’m not sure, but everything is falling apart, and I don’t know what the fuck I’m supposed to do to get my life back on track again.
I had a glimpse of the good life. I was so close. Almost there.
And then it slipped away. Just like everything always does.
Could I forgive her for choosing her family over me? The answer to that should be clear. Of course I can. But it’s not. Not when she knew my history. She’s one of the few I’ve ever shared my story with, one of the few people here to help my reputation, and shestillchose the other side.
It’s a running theme in my life. Everyone always chooses someone else. My father chose those other women over bonding with his son. Christina chose my friend to get pregnant with. Dallas chose to get rid of me.
I thought things would be different here in Vegas. It should have been a fresh start, and instead, I’m back to where I started.
I head downstairs, and Milton hands me a large manila envelope.
“Happy birthday, sir,” he says to me.
I glance up at him, surprised he knew. “Thanks,” I murmur. He’s likely taking in my disheveled appearance. I didn’t even put shoes on to come down here—bare feet, a sloppy T-shirt and mesh shorts, my hair matted down, my beard growing in.
I head back to the elevator and take it up without opening the envelope. I’ll do it when I’m alone since I have no clue what could possibly be inside.
When I get to my floor, of course Everleigh is just locking hers up.
She glances at me, takes in my appearance, and purses her lips.
I take in her appearance, too. She looks tired. She probably is. She’s been cleaning up after me for two days. If she’s even half as emotionally drained as I feel, I guess I have to admit that she’s going through some shit, too.
But that doesn’t motivate me to be any more understanding.
“What?” I demand.
“Happy birthday,” she says quietly.
She rushes onto the elevator before the doors close and takes it down.
My stomach clenches that this is where we’re at. Me yelling at her again. Her judging me.
I head inside and tear open the envelope, and I read the words scrawled at the top of the page, likely by whoever took down the order for whatever this is.
Happy Birthday, Maverick. Love, Everleigh
My eyes skip down the page to the name of the company and then, below it, the actual gift.
Vegas Custom Autos
Custom auto paint finish for Ford Raptor. Suggested colors: black and Vegas Aces red. Client’s choice.
My chest tightens.
I haven’t had the time or energy to hunt down a place to repaint the truck I just had done in Dallas colors, and she did it for me. I said it once aloud to her. A one-time complaint about my regret.
