Or he’ll know how fucked up I really am.
My head drops.
My eyes find the floor,
then Raymond’s shoes.
Black. Shiny. Cruel.
If I bite back,
his mouth starts running and shit spills.
But if I keep my mouth shut, he’ll leave?—
His hand slides off my cheek.
“If you need me, I’ll be at table twelve.”
Then his shoes step out of frame.
Only floor where he used to stand.
Andrew slides my drinks across the bar.
I reach for them without looking up.
The second my hand meets glass,
his finger comes over mine, long enough for his touch to press warmth into my skin.
Like he wants to soothe me,
be there for me in a way he can.
The stage band’s saxophone screams across the floor, waking me up.
I avoid his eyes,
grab the drinks,
and leave to find Ben.
But the second I turn,
Andrew’s gaze burns my back,
scorching his name into my spine.
Ben’s sitting with a few producers at a round table, gold chandeliers dripping light down on half-eaten shrimp cocktails.
I slide into the seat beside him.
I’m not upset, not on edge…
definitely not planning a quiet little war to piss off Andrew.
Not at all.
