And still, somehow, a plea.
She doesn’t respond. Just exhales shakily and inches down beside me, tugging the covers up to her chin. Quiet tears break free.
She’s not touching me, not holding me. Not close enough.
But she’s not gone either.
As I lie there, fists clenched around nothing, trying to forget the way her hair smells like chlorine, I hear two little words wrench through her sobs, tainting the air:
“I’m sorry.”
My mind reels. My chest fractures.
Then it hits me—there’s only one thing left to do.
By noon the next day, I’m perched at the edge of the bed.
A thorn in my heart.
A prayer on my lips.
And tucked between my hands, a final shot in the dark.
Chapter 30Chase
Somehow, it’s the last thing I expect to hear.
“Happy birthday!”
Confusion washes over me as I stand at the opening of the garage, looking like a bewildered puppy. Rock busts out a zippy drum solo while Annie blows on one of those neon-red party horns, then tosses a clump of something at me. I blink down at my boots.
Confetti.
“We’re going out. Hope you’re well-caffeinated and fully hydrated.” She does a hair flip, her heels clicking as she fetches her purse off one of the stools.
Tag smacks me on the back. “Congrats, old man. Another year around the sun.”
I forgot it was my fucking birthday.
But Annie remembered. I mentioned it once, some late night when Kenna crashed our practice and dove into one of her astrology speeches. Said Virgos were perfectionists with a martyr complex—artistic, analytical, and too observant for their own good.
Annie had smiled then. Not in a teasing way, but like she was putting the pieces together. Like she understood why I overthink everything. Why I care too much and say too little.
When she sends me that same smile from across the garage, I know I haven’t said enough.
Leave him.
Pick me.
I know you feel it too.
But I keep my mouth shut.
Because, martyr complex.
Zach downs his beer, his braids curtaining his face as he crunches the can. “Who’s D.D.?”
Annie clears her throat. “Alex.”
