With a groan, he swings around to stare at her. “Why won’t she forgive me?”
I huff out an exasperated breath. “Because you fucked around behind her back.”
He waves a hand. “So what? Plenty of guys do. Is it really that big of a deal?”
I glance at the girl in question as she tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I guess to her it was.”
Tipping the cup to his mouth, he taps the bottom when he finds it empty. With a grumble, he staggers off toward the kitchen without another word. I glance at Brooke and find a smile curving her lips as she flirts with the guy. After a few moments, her eyes flicker to mine. As our gazes collide, any happiness filling her face drains as she quickly dismisses me. Her attention resettles on the jerkoff she’s talking with. Only this time, her smile looks more forced than before.
Even though I had every intention of stomping over and breaking up the little love fest going on, I reconsider my decision.
What would be the point?
When it comes to Brooke McAdams, I’m not going to do a damn thing.
I can’t.
She’s not mine.
And she never will be.
5
CROSBY
“Come on, dumbass,” I grumble, half dragging Andrew through the door of our apartment. What I should have done is left his ass at the party to sleep it off.
He mutters something indecipherable before staggering through the small entryway, past the dark kitchen, and into the living room where he faceplants on the couch, landing with a heavy thud.
I can only shake my head in disgust.
This drunken behavior was all fine and dandy when we were eighteen-year-old freshmen living on our own for the first time. But that’s no longer the case. We’re seniors, one semester away from graduating, and he’s still pulling the same crap. The guy gets hammered and makes an ass of himself every Saturday night like clockwork. I never thought I’d say this, but it’s getting old.
I slam the apartment door shut and reluctantly trail after him into the living room before dropping onto the armchair. It’s after two in the morning. I’m tired and just want to hit the sack. The problem is that I don’t need him choking on his own vomit.
I pull my phone from my back pocket and scroll through a couple of notifications before tossing it on the coffee table to contemplate the situation. Well, at least he’s passed out on his stomach. If I remember correctly, he can’t asphyxiate in his own puke unless he’s on his back. Or is it the other way around?
I probably should have paid more attention during the mandatory seminars we were forced to sit through freshman year.
I glare at Andrew as he snores softly with his mouth hanging open before huffing out a breath and rising to my feet, ready to hit the sheets. There’s not much else I can do for him. I don’t take more than two steps before his eyelids fly open and he flips over onto his back before digging his phone out of his pocket and staring at it.
He taps the screen before pressing it to his ear. A moment of silence passes before he mutters, “Can you believe she blocked me?”
The she in question is obvious.
“Yeah, I can.”
“But I love her,” he whines, stabbing the end call button.
I scrub a hand tiredly over my face. My eyes feel like they’re burning.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have cheated on her,” I mutter for the second time tonight. Or given her an STI.
Curable, but still…
It’s doubtful that matters in the grand scheme of things.
“I didn’t realize what I had until it was gone.”
Yeah, well…tough shit. There’s no way to go back and fix the situation.
Even though I’ve never voiced those thoughts out loud, I don’t understand how he could have cheated on Brooke. The girl is a perfect ten. She has it all going on—looks, brains, and intelligence. It’s a lethal combination capable of bringing a grown man to his knees.
At first, I wondered if she knew what was going on and simply chose to turn a blind eye. It was easy to lose all respect and drop her neatly into the same category as all the other jersey chasers.
After a few months, little comments here and there made me realize that she was totally clueless. Then I disliked her for being stupid and refusing to see what was going on right in front of her face. It’s only in hindsight that I realized I needed a reason to dislike her and clung blindly to any excuse.
“Do you think she’ll come around at some point?” he asks, voice slurring.
“Probably not.”
When he groans, I swing around and head to the kitchen for a couple of bottles of water. He’s going to need it. Plus, I’m not interested in fielding more questions regarding his ex. Andrew needs to move on. It’s like he’s stuck on her for dropping him like a hot potato.