“If I do, it’s mine.” He jerks his tie off and tosses it on the counter too. “Answer me.”
“What about?”
He looks at me as if I should know.
I march past him and open the liquor cabinet.
“Help yourself,” he says, sarcasm dripping from the words.
“I plan on it.” I grab a bottle of whiskey and twist it open.
“If you drink from that, I’ll kill you.”
“Promise?” I look at him and raise my brows in a challenge.
He plants both hands on the counter and takes me in. I consider testing him. I think long and hard about opening the top of the bottle and gulping a few mouthfuls down but decide not to risk it. I don’t think Oliver could kill me fast enough. I’d probably end up in more pain than I am now.
If that’s possible.
The hole in my chest—the spot where my heart used to be—has deepened over the evening. As night set in and the sky got dark, so did my spirits.
How the hell did I get here? How did my life disintegrate in the blink of an eye? Is this what happens to adults? Is this why everyone who takes anything seriously ends up in misery?
“Enough bullshit,” Oliver says. “What’s going on?”
“I have nowhere else to go.”
“You have a house. I’ve been there.”
I think he’s trying to wound me.
I walk around the counter and sit on a barstool facing him. He must take pity on me—or the fact that he had a pink shirt in his closet and now I know, so he wants to play nice so I don’t tell anyone. Either way, he gets two glasses from a cabinet and slides me one.
“Rosie is at Mom’s,” I say. “Or she was. Holt and Blaire are too uptight, Coy and Bellamy are too … in love,” I say, choking the words out. “And then Wade.”
“What about Wade?”
“I’m not going there,” I scoff and pour us each two fingers of whiskey. “I’m trying to find the will to live tonight.”
Oliver takes one glass off the counter. He looks at me curiously.
“Take a drink,” he says, raising his glass to me, “and then tell me what the fuck is going on.”
We both take a hefty gulp of the amber liquor. It burns as it coats my throat.
Oliver hisses through his teeth, breathing out the heat of the drink.
“Now,” he says, setting his glass back on the counter, “fill me in.”
I do. I ramble for half an hour straight, telling him about the apartment complex, and Danny, about how I was late because I was looking at puppies for Rosie tonight. How I was trying to decide this afternoon if marriage should realistically be on the table this fast and how I was erring on yes, but now my relationship is over.
I hang my head.
“You were really thinking about marrying her?” he asks.
“Yeah. And I know we all made fun of Holt behind his back when he was all gung-ho over Blaire, but I get it now.” I pause. “When you know, you know.”
“And you knew.”
“Well, I still know, but she doesn’t. So I guess I knew. Not know anymore.”
Oliver laughs and pulls the bottle away from me. “No more whiskey for you.”
The heavenly warmth delivered by the drink fills my veins. It’s a Band-Aid covering the gaping wound in my heart, but I’m fine with taking the easy way out tonight.
Oliver sits beside me, wrapping his hands around his glass. We sit quietly.
“I think I’m done being an adult,” I say sadly. “It was a good ride.”
Amusement washes across Oliver’s face. “You can’t just quit.”
“I already did.”
He laughs. “You did not. Stop acting like a baby and grow some balls.”
I look at him aghast.
He laughs harder. “Fine. Some real talk then.” He downs the rest of his whiskey and sets the glass down hard. “If I had to get into a bar fight, which brother do you think I’d take with me?”
“Not Wade.”
He shakes his head. “Definitely not. I’d take you.”
“Makes sense. There’s a badass under this pretty face.”
He ignores me. “If I had to go to Vegas, which brother—”
“Me. This one is me. One-hundred-percent.”
“Who do you think I’d leave my kids with someday, if I ever have them, which isn’t likely?”
I immediately think of Rosie. My chest constricts. Hard.
“You,” he says. “And who do you think I know will come up with some out-of-the-box solution to solve a problem that the rest of us can’t work out?” He leans closer. “You.”
I lean back until the stool gets wobbly.
“What’s your point?” I ask.
“My point is that you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Why are you saying this?” I ask. “What difference does it make if I leave here feeling like we had a kumbaya moment? Not that I don’t appreciate it. And not that I’m not going to use it against you someday.”