Almost.
But I don’t wantone.
I wantthree.
“Two fingers of bourbon,” I say.“Neat.”
She pours.
The glass is in my hand before I can even blink, amber catching the dim light like it’s winking at me.
I take the first sip slowly, letting the burn settle down my throat, settle in my chest, settle the buzzing under my skin that’s been there since this morning.
Since Wren looked at me like she didn’t recognize me.
Like I was too much.
Like I was part of the noise she’s drowning in.
God, I hate that look.
I swirl the glass, watch the liquid coat the sides and drop down in slow golden trails.
I know I shouldn’t be here.
I know drinking won’t fix anything.
I know better.
But knowing better and doing better are two different things.
The second sip hits harder.Good.I want it to.
The bartender glances at me, brows raised.“Long day?”
I let out a humorless breath.“Something like that.”
She nods like she knows exactly what kind of day I mean.Maybe she does.Maybe most people in a place like this do.
I lift the glass again—but stop halfway.
Because the truth hits me in the face so fast it knocks the air out of my lungs:
I’m thinking about her.
Again.
Wren.
Her eyes this morning, red-rimmed and too bright.
Her shaking hands.
Her half-whispered “please don’t look at me like that.”
I drain the rest of the bourbon in a single swallow.
Because no matter how many good intentions I have, no matter how hard I try not to smother her—
