"Any chance I can get you to reconsider the song selection?" he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"No way," I reply, the tequila burning its way down my esophagus. "You chose three Luke Combs songsin a row.That's traumatizing. Tell you what…"
"Yeah?"
"I'll give you the first pick of which Spice Girl you wanna…be. Get it?Wannabe?"
He shakes his head and groans, dropping onto the plush leather sofa in our private VIP booth. I cue up the song on the machine because he is not getting out of it that easy—also, I'm drunk so I'll likely forget if I don't—and stumble over to join him. As I do, I trip over my own feet and unceremoniously dump all two hundred twenty pounds of myself onto him.
"Shit. Sorry," I mutter, trying to push off the sofa—and off his lap—but my upper body strength has turned to jelly. I wriggle around like a worm but don't succeed in either the first or second part ofgettingup.
"Here. Let me help you."
Two firm hands plant themselves on my shoulders, get a proper hold, then raise me up to a seated position.
"Thanks," I mumble, looking around for that tray of drinks because I’m not drunk enough to not be embarrassed by what just happened.
"Think you've had enough, buddy," Beau says, as if reading my mind. Or maybe I'm not being as discreet as I think I am.
Great. Now I'm embarrassed,andI look like an idiot. Guess it's the perfect moment to saysomething stupid, too.
"Buddy? You haven't called me that in years."
Beau squeezes his eyes shut, cutting off my ability to read what he's thinking. Although, so much time has passed, I've probably lost the ability to read him right anyway.
"What do you want me to say, Rein?" he asks, opening his eyes and casting a weary glance in my direction. "Life's a bitch."
I scoff. "Really? That's the best you've got."
His posture tightens. "What would you prefer me to say?"
"How about sorry?"
"Sorry?" He spits the word back at me. "Why should I apologize to you? I know I suffered a head injury, but what the fuck?"
"You ghosted me," I cry out, and thank God for soundproof walls.
"You betrayed me."
"I did not."
"You did fucking so."
I try to sit up a bit taller, but my feet slide from under me, and I accidentally end up nudging Beau's shin instead.
"Did you just kick me?"
"No." I pull back defensively. "I barely grazed your leg."
He shakes his head in a way that makes mefeelhis disappointment in me even though I have no clue what he’s disappointed about. I've done nothing but treat him like a brother.
An avalanche of guilt crushed me after the accident, and when the doctors told Beau that was it for his football career, I could have died. The days and weeks that followed were horrendous, the worst of my life. And I couldn't be with him. My team moved on to Kansas City and then the next rounds after that. I went because I had to, not because I wanted to. I called and messaged Beau constantly, which was the only thing I could do.
Until one day, without warning, the lines of communication stopped. Completely. He ghosted me before ghosting was even a thing.
Was he angry about the accident? Did he blame me for it? Was he jealous that I could carry on with my dream while his had been destroyed?
All questions that remain unanswered to this day. Thank God I had my family to fall back on for support because I wasdevastated.
