I was not going to ruin Paige’s happiness by doing something stupid, like telling her about Hunter and I (what Hunter and me? There was no Hunter and me) or crying.
Not that crying was particularly on my mind. That was just an example. I wasn’t thinking about crying. Not even a little bit.
“But won’t it be weird working for him if he’s dating your sister?” she asked, her forehead creased in concern, her eyes wide. “I don’t want to mess up your big shot at a promotion.”
It will be extremely weird! I wanted to shout. It will be weirder than the weirdest thing from the weirdest episode of Ripley’s Believe It or Not!
But I didn’t.
“I can handle it,” I said instead. “There’s no conflict.” The lie burned.
“Well, if you’re sure it’s okay…”
No, it’s not okay! It’s the exact opposite of okay!
“Couldn’t be more okay,” I as**sured her. “I mean, as long as you don’t feel like you have to endure his bad jokes just to help me out.” I tried to smile.
“After my last two boyfriends, any sense of humor at all is going to be a blessing,” Paige said with a grin. She hugged me. “I have the best sister ever!”
Yep, I was a damn fine sister. If you ignored the part where I lied blatantly to the one person who had always looked out for me. But it was for her own good, her own happiness. And probably mine, too. Right? In the long run? Totally. For sure.
I followed Paige back to our table, a fake smile on my face, lead in my stomach, and trepidation in my heart for the amount of match-making and flirting I was going to have to witness before we even got to dessert. And all with the knowledge that I could have stopped it, if I’d said one word to either Paige or Hunter.
I was my own worst enemy, and I had no idea how to call a ceasefire.
TWO
I pressed down harder on the gas pedal, and savored the rush of the wind through my hair. Barely saw the kudzu-covered vines rush past in a blur of green, or the occasional boulders jutting up through the earth. I was out on the back roads, lost in the rolling hills and barren fields, and I didn’t care to be found.
I wanted to lose myself in the rush, in the speed, in the rolling landscape, but I couldn’t escape the pictures running through my head. Pictures of Hunter and Paige, laughing and talking and smiling…together.
Together…I could learn to hate that damn word.
I wasn’t driving anywhere in particular, just driving. Trying to get away from those pictures, those pictures that twisted up my insides with how sad they made me, because two people I cared about were happy, so shouldn’t I be happy? But I couldn’t be. I couldn’t make myself be. And the pictures caught up with me no matter how hard I pressed the gas pedal.
I knew I couldn’t go home—I mean, back to Hunter’s estate. What if Paige was there? What if Paige was still there in the morning? I couldn’t face that. I couldn’t even begin to think about facing that.
I’d really backed myself into a corner here, and I had no idea what I was going to do next.
But I’d be fine. Of course I’d be fine. After all, I couldn’t date Hunter anyway. I was focused on my career, like I should be. Kicking as**s and taking names, proving the Douchebros wrong and almost driving my car into a tree—
“Aaaaaaaaaah, shit shit shit!” I hit the brakes just in time, screeching to a halt before I could end all my angsting prematurely via an oak that looked like it had survived Sherman’s March. I leaned back against the driver’s seat, breathing heavily, trying to slow down my heart. Shit. I’d almost gotten myself killed. No guy was worth that.
I just needed a moment. I just needed to relax.
Too bad I could barely remember how to relax anymore.
Then I saw the glow from the dive bar’s neon lights in the distance, and I thought I just might be able to remember.
#
The lights spluttered as I entered the bar, casting flickering orange and blue shadows on the grimy walls hung with moth-eaten hunting trophies. The jukebox blared out an old blues tune with a soulful wail, and the cigarette smoke hung as heavy as the clouds in my soul.
Perfect.
I slid onto a cracked red leather bar stool next to a bunch of old biker types with mustaches that could have doubled as their motorcycles’ handlebars, wearing more leather than a herd of Angus cattle. They shot me a surprised look, but apparently one look at my face was enough to settle the question of why a city slicker was patronizing their establishment, and they went right back to what sounded like a well-worn argument about the virtues of American-made motors.
The bartender was an older fellow with hair that was the whitest thing in the whole dingy place. “What’ll it be, little lady?”
? Also By Lila Monroe
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