I blame my family. Witnessing my parents fight all the time when I was a kid. Ryan retreated while I took it all in, figuring that was the best way to communicate—by yelling.
Such bullshit, I realize now. My parents fucked me up but good.
And that’s why my friends don’t want to talk about this relationship-slash-Ava stuff with me. They’re afraid I’ll go off.
Before I can open my mouth to say something, the front door opens and a rush of people push through, most of them guys from our football team. They walk in carrying alcohol and snacks, and Hayden rises to her feet to greet them before she hurries into the kitchen ahead of them.
“You didn’t tell me we were having more guests,” she says to Tony, a fake smile plastered on her face.
He watches everyone trail into the kitchen after Hayden, blinking at them in surprise. “I didn’t know.”
“I invited them,” Caleb says, earning a dirty look from Hayden for his comment.
“What the hell? Why would you do that?” Tony asks.
“Joey Starr texted me about twenty minutes ago saying the party they were at was lame. I told him ours was too and we needed them to come over and bring the excitement. By excitement, I meant booze and snacks,” Caleb explains.
“You thought our party was lame?” Tony actually looks offended.
Caleb shrugs. “No one’s really here. And we’re divided up like a middle school dance, thanks to—”
He clamps his lips shut, but I know what he was going to say.
Thanks to me and Ava drawing a line in the sand, straight down the middle of our friend group.
Hayden marches up to Caleb, thrusting her finger in his face. “They better not make a mess of this place.”
“Don’t worry your Joanna-Gaines-farmhouse-loving heart, no one will touch your décor.” He taps his finger against some greenery currently poking out of a small glass vase on the dining table. “I’ll lead everyone outside.”
“Will they fit?” she asks.
“I’ll make them. And hey, at least they brought snacks.” He points at the haul of chips and dips currently being dumped onto the kitchen counter by our new guests.
“Who the hell is Joanna Gaines?” I ask Caleb, once Hayden leaves us to go organize all the snacks and drinks the guys brought with them.
“Some home designer chick. Her husband is cool.” Caleb makes a face. “I kind of hate that I know who they are. Blame Gracie.”
My heart pangs, which is so fucking annoying. But I know what that’s like. To care about something you otherwise wouldn’t give a shit about. And the only reason you care is because your girl shared it with you. Like a makeup brand or one of those romcom movies on Netflix that makes you roll your eyes, but secretly you enjoy watching. Especially because it makes your girl so damn happy to watch it with you.
Share it with you.
“I need another drink,” I mutter before I polish off the one I’m currently clutching. Then I head for the kitchen counter, grabbing a fresh beer and downing most of that while chatting with the guys who just showed up.
Eventually we start doing shots and I’m leading the pack, drinking way too much, encouraging them to drink along with me, shouting my approval when they throw back shot after shot. Soon enough, I’m stumbling. Rambling. Shooting dirty looks toward the dining table, my skin practically vibrating because I can feel her presence. We’re sharing the same space, the same fucking air, and we’re not talking or touching or even looking at each other.
And it’s killing me.
Unable to take it any longer, I leave the group while they’re mid-shot, but I don’t think any of them notice. I push my way through the crowd, my focus on one thing and one thing only.
Ava.
People call my name, but I ignore them. Caleb grabs at my arm as I walk past him, but I pull out of his grip. Tony sends me a warning look when I’m looming behind the group of women huddled around my ex-girlfriend and I glare right back at him. He doesn’t intimidate me.
I have every right to speak to her.
They don’t notice me at first. They’re involved in some sort of deep conversation, their heads bent close together as they speak in low tones. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying, and I sort of don’t care.
I clear my throat.