“You gonna drink that?” Kelly asks, nodding to the bottle in my hands. The same bottle I’ve been twirling on the bar top since walking back in over an hour ago. I shake my head, not much in the mood to talk. After saying what I needed to say to Kelly, I’ve been content to just sit here and sulk, but I guess she’s had enough.

She slams her hands down onto the bar to get my attention. “Listen, Drake.” Her stern tone of voice reminds me of my mother’s—my real one and my stepmother, not that I talk to my actual mom too much. No bad blood or anything. I love her, we just . . . drifted after I moved back home to live with Dad and Didi. “I know you love that girl, but she’s got some growing up to do yet, and if you really think she’s the one, then wait for her. It’s that simple. And if waiting seems too hard, then maybe she’s not the one after all. Now, pay up—my drinks and yours—and I’ll drive your ass home.”

I signal Owen to clear out our bill just as my phone buzzes in my pocket.

Brent: Got your girl. She’s drunk as a skunk. Handsy too.

I blink hard at my screen. What the fuck? I glance up at Kelly and see she’s on her phone too, and she raises her eyes to mine. “You just get a message from Brent?” she asks.

“Mmm. Yup,” I tell her, still trying to make sense of the words on my screen. Why is Azalea with Brent, and what does he mean by handsy? Swear to God . . .

“C’mon, D, let’s go. Brent said he’s taking her to your place.” Not bothering to wait for Owen, I slip a fifty under my beer bottle and follow her to her car.

“You sure you’re good to drive?” I ask.

“Yes, sir, only been sippin’ on diet cola.” I nod and climb into the passenger seat of her Camry. Not huge, but a shit-ton more space than Azalea’s car. Little Bit, what’ve you gone and done now? My mind races the entire drive home.

“You comin’ in?” I ask Kelly as she idles in front of my house.

She shifts into park and turns the key. “May as well.”

She makes herself at home on my couch, and I head into the kitchen to fetch two bottles of water and some of my dad’s famous Cajun boiled peanuts. Seated at opposite ends of the couch, we shoot the shit and wait for Brent and Azalea to arrive.

Twenty minutes later, the sound of gravel crunching under tires alerts us that they’re here. Not even ten seconds later, and there’s a hard knock at the door. Popping up from the couch, I make my way to the door, opening to a very sad-looking, very drunk Azalea.

“Drake,” she whispers up at me, all breathless, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“Bit, what on earth have you been up to?” I ask her just as Brent rounds the car and joins her.

“Just went for a drink. Needed to clear my mind—to forget.”

I bristle at her words, because if her stubborn ass would’ve just listened, this night could’ve ended a hell of a lot differently.

“Wanna tell him what else you got up to?” Brent asks. Azalea looks down at her feet, mumbling to herself. “Cat got your tongue? I’ll tell him, then. Found your girl over at Bryn’s Bar, good and drunk, and on her way out the door with some Joe Schmo. She could barely walk, and he damn sure looked up to no good.”

Anger rockets through me, and I clench my fists at my sides so tightly that it feels like my knuckles are at risk of bursting through my skin. Nevertheless, I nod for him to continue.

“I set that jerkoff straight—sent him on his way—and put your girl in my car. Drove straight here. Not gonna lie to you though, man. She came onto me.”

Azalea still hasn’t looked at me, and I’m seething, my vision tinged red. Silently, I count down from ten to one and back again before gripping Azalea’s chin and tilting her eyes to mine. “You kiddin’ me with this shit, Little Bit?”

She shivers at the gravel in my tone. “I–I was upset and wanted to . . . forget. So, I went out. Had a few drinks.”

“And tried to hook up with not one, but two different guys, both of which weren’t me.”

“They . . . I . . . he made me feel wanted. I just want to feel wanted.”

“You want to feel wanted?” I parrot her words back to her in disbelief.

“Yeah, Drake. You don’t want me—” I let out a primal growl, and I slam my fist into my front door, stopping her in her tracks, thankfully shutting her up.

“Jesus Christ, Azalea. Are you serious right now? Do you even hear yourself? I’ve all but fucking spelled it out for you. Laid all my cards on the table, and I don’t know if you’re just ignorant, oblivious, or so damn blinded by the past that you can’t see what’s in front of you. But know this. I’m. Done. I’m so fucking done.”

Her lower lip trembles, and I almost cave. “Done? I–I thought you said you’d always lo–love me.”

“And I will, but I’m sure as shit done chasing you.”

“B–but, Drake—”

“But nothing, Azalea. Go home.” I turn to Brent, and we silently communicate that he’ll drive her home. Dejected, pissed, and so damn angry, I turn back toward the door, jaw locked to fight the overwhelming desire to turn around and kiss away the pain on her face. But I can’t. I won’t. It’s high time I put myself first, even if it fucking kills me.

“You don’t mean that!” she hollers at my retreating back, her voice hoarse and shaky.

“I’ve never said anything I meant more. Go home. There’s nothin’ here for you.” I yank open the door to my house, giving her a clear view of Kelly sitting on my couch before slamming it behind me, the noise of the wooden frame creaking and her sobs the soundtrack of my heartbreak.