I wink and Jenna’s cheeks go pink.
Yeah. I’m enjoying this.
The night drifts on. We play pool as another round of drinks materializes, and the laughter ebbs and flows around us. At some point, I realize Jenna’s gone quiet. Too quiet, and that worries me.
She’s back at the “singles” table, half-turned away from the rest of the group, a nearly empty cocktail glass in front of her.Her shoulders are rounded, her fingers worrying the edge of a paper napkin.
From here, I can see her throat working like she’s swallowing something thick. There’s a shine in her eyes that has nothing to do with the bar lights.
My chest tightens. “I’m gonna sit this one out,” I tell Marcus, handing off my cue.
He follows my gaze, then nods, his expression softening. “Yeah. Go.”
I make my way over, weaving through the crowd until I’m standing beside her table.
“Hey,” I say quietly. “This seat taken?”
Jenna startles, swiping quickly at her wet lashes. “Oh. No. Sorry. I was—” She gestures helplessly with her hand. “Thinking.”
I pull the chair out and sit, bracing my forearms on my thighs. Up close, I can see the faint smudge of mascara under one eye and the way her mouth trembles when she lifts her chin.
“You okay?” I ask.
She lets out a shaky laugh. “That’s the second time you’ve asked me that. Or is it the third?”
“Maybe I’ll keep asking until I get a real answer.”
Her fingers twist the napkin into shreds. “I’m just… drunk and emotional. You don’t need to worry about it.”
I study her profile, the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she won’t quite meet my eyes.
“Maybe I want to.”
She glances at me then, brows pulling together. “Why?”
Because I’ve had a crush on you since we were thirteen.
Because I remember the time you let me borrow your pen in class, and angels descended from Heaven when you smiled at me.
Because I watched you kiss a guy who didn’t deserve you and wanted to smash his face in on principle.
I lift one shoulder. “Because you look like you’re carrying a lot, and it’s not very gentlemanly to just watch you drown in it. Especially not when it’s almost Valentine’s Day.”
She snorts adorably. “Valentine’s Day can kiss my ass.”
“I’ll let the holiday committee know,” I say dryly.
She snorts again, then immediately presses her lips together, like letting herself laugh might break something else loose.
Silence stretches between us for a few seconds. The music shifts to a slower song. Someone near the bar shouts something as glasses clink. Life goes on around us and she slumps in her seat.
“My divorce was finalized a month ago,” she says suddenly, still staring at the napkin. “Everyone keeps telling me I should be happy. Free. Thriving.” She smiles tightly.
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It is.” She swallows. “Some days, I’m fine. I go to work. I watch my murder shows. I remember to eat something green. Then other days, I wake up and it hits me all over again that I spent ten years of my life loving someone who saw me as…” The corners of her lips turn down and I hate it. “Background noise. A convenience. A placeholder until something younger and shinier and prettier came along.”
Anger flares, hot and immediate, tight in my gut. “There’s no one prettier than you, Princess. He’s an idiot.”
