“I, um…I’m sorry about the extra addition.”
“Why are you sorry? He’s your boyfriend.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing. He has a right to be here.”
Edginess gnaws at me, gravel coating my tongue.
I don’t know if it’s the lack of sleep, the reminder that I’m another year older and Stella is another year gone, or the way Annie beams in her dress, gift-wrapped and glowing. The sewn-on sequins twinkle beneath the moon like bloodred stars, the fabric making love to her curves.
She blinks up at me, frowning slightly. “Okay. I just…I realize it’s your birthday, and he’s not someone you’d choose to celebrate with.”
I shrug. “To be honest, I forgot it was my birthday. I haven’t celebrated in years.”
Her lips shape into an O. “Oh.”
“So, I appreciate the effort. Extra addition or not.” It’s not a bold-faced lie. I appreciate the effort as much as I loathe it. Effort means she cares, and as long as she cares, hope dwells.
The hope is what I loathe.
Nodding, she draws her bottom lip between her teeth.
I can see she’s about to say something. But I also see that Alex is storming around the corner with lightning under his white leather sneakers.
Whipping around, I push inside the bar, leaving her just outside the entrance.
Strobe lights paint the floor in watercolor lights. A live band plays from the stage while patrons dance below, a swirl of hair, limbs, sweat, and capsizing glasses.
That godforsaken pressure grows, pulsing between my temples.
Goddammit.
These migraines are shit.
I wind over to the bar, squeezing between two women in summery citrus dresses. Lemon rakes her eyes over me on my right. Orange sends me a smile tomy left. An order is placed, a whiskey neat sliding across the counter through a puddle of melted ice. It goes down smooth, a quick, cheap remedy to the hole in my heart and the boulder in my brain.
Before pivoting away, I pause, glancing at Lemon. She’s the opposite of Annie with sheaves of golden blond hair, cocoa-brown eyes, and a rail-thin frame. Pretty by all standards.
Yet the sight of her does nothing for me.
And that’s fucked.
I’m twenty-five years old, have been celibate for longer than I care to admit, and have no ties to anyone, no loyalty in question, and no good fucking reason to not introduce myself. See where it goes. Open my eyes to someone other than Annalise Adams, who is currently arm in arm with her long-term boyfriend, a sun-kissed smile on her scarlet lips.
Pressing two fingers to the center of my forehead, I turn back around and slump against the bar. Another whiskey is placed in front of me several seconds later.
I down that one too, then order a third.
“You okay?”
A mousy voice registers on my right. Lemon.
I stare straight ahead, my liquor glass hiding the smile I’m not wearing. “Yeah. I’m good.”
The truth is, I drink beer when I’m good. I drink straight whiskey when I want to forget that I’m not.
“I’m Jaclyn.”
