“C’mon, stupid girl, let’s get you home,” Brent says to me, but I’m immobile. I can’t seem to peel my tear-flooded eyes from Drake’s front door. She’s here. With him. In his home, looking every bit as comfortable as I ever did. “I mean it, let’s go. I got shit to do, and babysittin’ your ass is cutting into my plans.”

When he tugs my wrist, I give way and stumble along behind him. This time, he doesn’t open the door for me. He just stands there glaring until I climb in and buckle. He climbs in and I go to tell him my address, but he swipes and taps at his phone screen and the navigation app starts spouting directions before I get the chance.

Brent doesn’t speak to me, much less look at me, the entire drive to my apartment, and I just don’t get why he’s so mad. What did I ever do to him? We make it to my house in record time, and he slams his truck into park. “One of your friends will be here soon. I’ll wait with you till then.”

I brave a glance at him and wince at the hard set of his jaw. “Why’re you so angry with me?”

“Azalea, I’m gonna be real with you, okay? You’ve made a lot of stupid-ass choices tonight, and you probably blew any chance you had with Drake. I don’t know what you think you know, but truth is, you don’t know shit.”

His words claw and nip at the anger already brewing in me, agitating me even further. “What I know, Brent, is that the only man I’ve ever loved is holed up with the same two-bit whore who—”

“Watch your mouth, little girl,” Brent shouts, the sound of it stopping me in my tracks. “Say one more word about my woman, and you’ll be waitin’ your ass outside the truck in the cold for your friend.”

“I’m . . . your what?” I hear him, but I’m not following.

“Kelly James, soon to be Matheson. I’m not sure why you think she’s his, but I can guaran-damn-tee you, she’s mine.”

I snort. I don’t mean to, I really don’t, and even though I’m mostly sober after my showdown with Drake, I’m blaming the alcohol for my next words. “Then your woman’s a whore.”

“That’s it. Get out,” Brent roars as he reaches across me and flings my door open. “Get the fuck out.”

“You’re just gonna leave me here?” I yell at him.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere until your friend’s here, but you can wait out there. Go. Now.”

I do as he says, realizing that somewhere between the bar and here, I managed to lose my clutch, with my I.D. and keys. Talk about a cherry on top. Propping myself against my front door, I settle in to wait for whoever is on their way.

My red dress, while killer, does absolutely nothing to keep me warm while waiting. The cool November wind whips around me, and I hunch my shoulders, trying to huddle around myself. I keep my eyes locked on my shiny heels, but my mind is a whirlwind, trying to process everything that’s happened. If Kelly is with Brent, maybe I did jump to conclusions about her and Drake. Maybe I should’ve listened to what he had to say instead of just assuming.

Or maybe Kelly really is a whore, playing us all. Maybe Drake doesn’t care that he’s with his employee’s fiancée, and maybe Brent’s as dumb as a box of rocks. At this point, there are more maybes than anything else, and I’m way too tired and cold to make sense of much of anything. If only my mind would stop racing and presenting me with one outrageous possibility after another.

The one thing I know for sure is that tomorrow is gonna hurt—in more ways than one.

* * *

I’m not sure how long I’ve been sitting here, on the little bench in front of my apartment, freezing my tail off. Long enough that my cheeks are rosy and my nose is runny, and my toes are tingling. So, it’s no surprise that I just about jump for joy when I see Magnolia’s little beat-up Honda jump the curb as she turns into my parking lot.

I watch her with an almost morbid fascination as she tries to park, backing out and straightening no less than four times. Someone needs to give that girl driving lessons, stat, which is a strange thing to say, given that she’s twenty-five years old.

Once she’s successfully parked, and by successfully, I mean mostly in the lines, she hops out and dashes over to me with her arms wrapped tightly around herself. “S–sorry I took so long. I had to go get your key from Seraphine. Hope you don’t mind that I came. Her dad is in a b–bad way.” Her words come out in one jumbled mass, save for her slight stutter.

“Not at all. Let’s just go inside,” I tell her as we make our way to my door. Brent waits until we’re inside before pulling away. That’s the thing about Southern boys—they’re gentlemen even when they’re assholes.

After locking the door, I throw myself back onto my couch. “Ugh, what a fluster-cluck!” I mutter into my hands.

Softly, Magnolia claims the seat next to me. “I don’t wanna pry, but is everything okay?”

I laugh a humorless laugh. “No, not really.”

“Well, I may not know much in the way of relationships and love, other than what not to do, but I’m a good listener. I mean, if–if you wanna talk, that is.”

I take my time replying, studying her as I gather my words. I scan her, taking in her shampoo commercial-worthy hair, her sad blue eyes, and the way she always pulls her shoulders in as if she’s trying to minimize the space she takes up. There’s so much we don’t know about Magnolia, and I guess in turn, so much she doesn’t know about all of us, which I guess is what makes unloading my problems on her so easy. She doesn’t have any preconceived notions or opinions. She’s a blank canvas for me to spill my story on.

“I’m in love with Drake, like I want his last name and little farmer babies, but I messed it all up. Like I mess everything up.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Magnolia whispers, and I shake my head.

“It’s very true. Drake and I . . . we have a history together. I’ve known him since I was thirteen, and I’ve loved him just as long. Growing up, he was always there for me, ya know? And I never thought he felt the same way, and then one day, he called me beautiful, and hope—that silly bitch—started growing in my heart. I thought maybe, just maybe, he could feel the same way, ya know?

“But every time we took a step forward, we took two back. Anytime I was single, he was taken, and anytime he was single, I wasn’t. I convinced myself that it was just bad timing, nothing more. Right before he left for college, I decided to make my move, and let’s just say it blew up in my face. In the worst way.”

“How? Wh–what happened?” Magnolia asks.

“I got all dressed up, in my best red dress.” Another laugh, devoid of humor, passes my lips. Apparently, red dresses, me, and Drake don’t go together. “And I showed up at a party I knew he’d be at. Long story short, we made out, and his girlfriend—well, a girl he claims he was ‘talking’ to—walked in. I didn’t know.”

“Oh. That’s not so bad though, if they really were just talking, right?” Her voice is so calm and soothing that I keep right on spilling my guts.

“Yes and no. It’s—ugh. I don’t know my dad. I know of him, but I’ve never met him.”

“I’m so sorry—”

I hold up a hand to stop her. “Don’t be. He’s a dirty-dog of a man. Met my mom when she was young and filled her head with stories of the future they could have together. Whisked her away for long, exotic weekends. Always took her on extravagant dates, but he never took her to his house, ya know?

“I don’t know how she never found that odd, but whatever. Anyway, four months into their relationship, Mom turns up pregnant with me, and as the story goes, he flipped. Told her to get an abortion—that he couldn’t have an illegitimate child destroying his family.”

Mags gasps, “His f–family?”

I nod. “Yup. Old dog was married, with two kids. Said his wife wasn’t meeting his needs and that he needed a break and some flavor, not another tax-dependent mouth to feed. That was the end of them. He gave her the money to, in his words, ‘fix shit,’ but she used it to start over. Her family disowned her for getting pregnant before marriage, so she moved here, to Dogwood.

“I guess I didn’t realize it until everything with Drake happened at the party, but for the first decade of my life, Mom was a man-hater. She always went on about it, went on about love being nothing more than a crock. Said men were all cheaters and liars. Of course, she changed her tune when she met my pops. But, that’s a different story for a different day. Point is, when Drake kissed me while he was technically with someone else, it made me feel like my mom. He made me the ‘other woman,’ and it hurt so, so bad.” Pausing my story, I wipe away the moisture coating my cheeks. “I guess I never really let go of how him kissing me then made me feel. I mean, I thought I did, but well . . . and then everything recently stirred up those feelings something fierce, and I kind of lost it, and now, I’ve lost him. Serves me right, I suppose.”

Gently, hesitantly, Magnolia reaches out and takes my hand. “I’m sorry,” she says. That’s it. Nothing else, just “I’m sorry,” and I know she means it. If only apologizing to Drake would be as easy.