Except I knew better.
Nate knew better.
And I had a feeling Regan knew better too.
By the time dinner ended, the girls were making plans to meet up later at another beach club. Nate promised nothing and implied everything, which was his gift and his curse. We walked with them for a while along the public beach, staying loose, staying loud, staying in character. At the bend where the resort lights faded and the private residences began, Nate peeled off first, muttering something about checking in with “our boring cousin.”
That meant he was heading back toward the villa.
That meant he was on duty tonight.
I stayed behind.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I had no reason to be near Destiny.
No reason to pass the private gate. No reason to check the upstairs hallway. No reason to see if she had gone to bed angry or hurt or pretending not to be either.
Tomorrow made three days.
Three days until her birthday.
Like some sick countdown ticking in my skull no matter how hard I tried to shut it up.
I took a seat at the far end of a beach bar built out of dark wood, rope lights, and rich-tourist fantasy. The kind of place with swings for barstools, surfboards bolted to the ceiling, and tequila locked behind glass like holy relics. The ocean was black beyond the open-air deck, the waves silver where moonlight caught their backs. Music drifted through the warm air, soft bass, lazy guitar, distant laughter, the world carrying on like it had no idea how many lives were cracking open behind white walls and bougainvillea down the beach.
I had a cigarette burning between my fingers and top-shelf tequila in a heavy glass by my other hand.
“What the hell am I doing?” I muttered to myself.
The cigarette glowed orange when I took a drag.
I didn’t smoke much.
Tonight, I wanted something to do with my hands that wasn’t reaching for trouble.
Tomorrow was three days.
Then two.
Then one.
Then eighteen.
Like what? Like I was waiting for a number to flip and make this clean? Like I was going to show up at midnight with a bow on my bad intentions and pretend patience had made me honorable?
The thought turned my stomach.
“That’s so messed up,” I said under my breath. “I’m messed up.”
I tipped back the tequila.
It burned hot and clean, the expensive kind of pain.
Good.
I deserved it.
