Page 61 of On The Edge

I move to the edge of it—the glass partition that keeps the wind from the patio and keeps its occupants from falling. The breeze is gentle as the faint sounds of the city at night travel up to meet me.

“Don’t jump.”

But I do just that. I jump at Cruz’s voice and spin around to see him just beneath the cover. It’s his white sneakers and the glint of the glass bottle in his hand that allow me to find him. “Jesus. You scared me.”

“Took you long enough to find me.” He chuckles and the slur in it is all I need to hear to know he’s escaping too.

I have a feeling he’s escaping much more than me though.

“You’re drunk.”

“Ding, ding, ding, we have a winner.” He steps toward me as he lifts his hands up. “How’d you guess? Was it the bottle? The slurred words? Or are you just such a fucking genius that you can’t figure out what I’m upset about?”

“Don’t be a jerk.”

“A jerk? I’m a happy drunk, Madds. So long as I can drink more.”

“Here I was texting you, worrying about you . . . getting frantic with each and every minute you don’t respond and—”

“I’m a big boy. No one asked you to worry about me.”

“And you’re up here getting plastered this whole time,” I say, ignoring his flippant comment so I don’t get even more pissed.

Because he’s right. He didn’t ask to be cared about or worried over . . . and yet I did. I am.

“Would you rather I had done it in public because I have no problem with that? In fact, I’m pretty damn good at it, but I have a feeling that good ol’ Kevy-Kev might have a problem with that. So see”—he flashes a goofy grin—“I can show growth. I can take direction. I can be a good pet.”

“I have a feeling this has nothing to do with Kevin.”

He takes a sip straight from the bottle and hisses at the burn. At least he isn’t so drunk he’s immune to it. “Good for you. I’m glad you have feelings.”

Ah, so that’s how we’re going to play this.

“You left me alone in a strange country to go get drunk.”

“Last I checked, I’m not your fucking babysitter.”

“Great. Perfect. Not a babysitter, and an asshole.”

“Never claimed to be any different.” He leans against a pole that holds the lattice up. There’s challenge in his eyes. A need for a fight.

“You didn’t answer my texts. I was worried.”

“Again, I didn’t ask for your worry. I’m not obligated to do shit.” He shakes his head. “Oh. Wait. My bad. I guess that’s what a boyfriend would do. Guess that just serves to prove I’m not relationship material.”

“Or it just proves that I’m not of the right pedigree to warrant a response.”

“Ah. Tú hablas español?” he says evenly. You speak Spanish.

“Enough that I got the gist of what was being said, yes.”

Our eyes hold. “And you didn’t think that was pertinent enough to tell me over the past few days?”

“Would it have mattered?” I counter. “Would that have upped my level of pedigree?”

The muscle pulses in Cruz’s jaw as my pettiness shines through. Fuck. The comment about pedigree wasn’t supposed to become words on my lips. But it just did and it’s been said, and I can’t take it back. Whatever is bugging Cruz clearly isn’t about me . . . and yet I just made it to be because yes, I’m hurt. Yes, I’m human. Yes, I’m not immune to being disregarded.

And yes, I didn’t hear him say a single word to stand up for me.