“I don’t know aboutwe,” he says with a shrug.
“The rest of those guys all seem like the same exact people.”
“Andre and Paul have kids. They were joking around and going along with the conversation because this is our dynamic. This is how we know each other. But if we saw them alone? In their own element. I bet we wouldn’t even recognize them.”
Trey’s eyes are wide and I realize I went too far.
“Sorry,” I apologize quickly. “Didn’t mean to get weird about that.”
“No, it’s totally fine. I know what you mean. We’ve grown up.”
“Exactly.”
“Do you want to start a tab?” the bartender asks as she puts our beers down.
“No,” I answer quickly, not wanting to stay longer than this one beer.
She prints a receipt and hands them to us, but I grab Trey’s before he can get it and put my card on the table.
“That’s for dinner,” I tell him.
He laughs to himself and picks up his beer, taking a long swig.
Chapter Five
Trey
I sip my beer, watching the highlights on ESPN on the TV above the alcohol shelves, but I don’t process anything because all I can think about is what Hudson said—about all of us being different people. It hit harder than it should because it felt like I was being called out, even though Hudson isn’t the type to call anyone out for anything.
But he’s right. We are different. I know I am, and I hate it. Sometimes I wish I could go back to those glory days. Before Austen got married and before I graduated. Before my life became this roller coaster that I can’t seem to get off of.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye.
He’s different, too. Though I can’t put my finger on what it is, he just…feelsdifferent. Tense, I guess.
Without thinking, I reach out and grab his shoulder, giving it a soft squeeze. He jumps like he’s seen a ghost, nearly knocking his beer over.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” I say as I give him a reassuring smile. “Relax, Huds.”
I tap his shoulder, noting the thickness, the heat from beneath his shirt. Slowly but surely his shoulders ease up as he wraps his hand around the base of his glass, but he doesn’t drink. He glances down at the bar.
“Sorry,” he says. “I’m just—”
“Tired?” I ask, rubbing his shoulder lightly. “Yeah, I know. You want to call it a night?”
He looks up at me, his amber eyes glistening with a softness that makes me feel like somehow he can see right through me—past the facade I’ve constructed over the last eight years. It should scare me, but it doesn’t. Instead, it feels almost cathartic.
But that might be the couple beers I’ve had, too.
“We just got here,” he says guiltily.
“Doesn’t mean we have to stay,” I offer.
I realize my hand is still clutching his shoulder, though I swore I let go of him. He glances at my hand, and I let go. Maybe we should call it a night. I hadn’t intended on drinking quite so much, but talking to Hudson felt good. Familiar. I’d offered to buy us another round, but he refused, though he didn’t leave. Not like he said he would. Part of me wonders if maybe he needed this, too.
Or that might just be the alcohol talking.
“I’m feeling kind of… tired, too,” I say as I call the bartender over.
