“What was that about?” Damn it. Gabe.
I turn to look at my friend, who looks more amused than annoyed. “What?”
“Don’twhatme. You and Jackson. You and Rebecca.”
“I’m gay, sweetheart.” I pat his chest. “There will never be a me and Rebecca.”
His eyes roll as we walk toward the kitchen, and he directs me to sit down at the island while handing me a bottle of water. “I’m well aware of that, but you were being a dick.”
“You heard that?” I wince because I thought I was being quiet.
“Everyone at the party could hear you. You’re loud when you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” I grumble, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a swig.
“Sure,” he says, his voice low. I turn around and see that no one is paying attention to us—especially not Jackson, who’s busy consoling his little princess.
I look back at Gabe, irritation swimming in my gut. “He doesn’t love her.”
“So? You don’t have to be mean to the poor girl.”
“I wasn’t being mean. I was being honest. There’s not enough honesty in the world.” I take another drink. “I’m making the world a better place.”
He snorts and shakes his head. “By being mean to a perfectly nice girl?”
I lean forward a little, my arms braced on the marble counter of the island. “You know he doesn’t love her.”
He leans across the bar too. “It doesn’t mean you have to be a dick.”
I scoff and then sit up straight. “Maybe I had a little too much to drink.”
He stands up straight and nods his head. “So sober up and remember we’re all friends here.” He lowers his voice even more, then leans over the counter again, so only I can hear. “And if you want Jackson—just know I’m rooting for you.”
I pull back like he burned me—scorched the hell out of me—with his words. “I what? I don’t want Jackson.” I say it a little too loudly and cringe, but I don’t think anyone is really paying attention to my drunk ass, thank God. I’m quieter now. “I don’t.”
He just shrugs. “It would make sense to me. You and Jackson.”
I shake my head. “He barely even thinks of me as a friend. I annoy the shit out of him.”
Again, he shrugs. “Maybe. But Jackson likes a little...”—he searches for the right word noticeably before settling on—“fire.”
I snort, thinking about the girl who threatened to set his house on fire. “Yeah well, he’s fire, and I’m fire. We’d be a disaster.”
“Not worse than his worst relationship.”
I snort. “Oh yeah... couple goals. Not the worst of the worst.”
He laughs and walks around to slap me on the back. “I think you two would be good together.”
“Fire and fire with no ice to put it out,” I mumble in my drunken stupor, leaning forward and resting my forehead on the cold marble.
I feel him pat my back in pity before he leaves me to wallow.
Because I know deep down what I want, and what I want is Jackson. But I’m also right. We’d fight constantly.
There’d be nothing there to stop it before we ignited into something we couldn’t come back from.
9
