"Yeah. Sure."
"You want to call an Uber?"
"No," I say. "I can drive."
She picks up her purse from the counter. Turns to face me. "Is that a good idea?" Her voice is soft. Questioning, not accusing.
But it still gnaws at the hole in my gut. She doesn't usually go there. She doesn't usually remind me I'm Oliver Flynn, alcoholic fuckup.
"Patrick lives on the other side of the freeway," I say. "You want to walk?"
"You know what I mean." Her eyes meet mine. They bore into mine. Ask a million things I can't answer.
"Yeah. I'll be fine."
"You sure?"
No. This is going to kill me. But that's not what she means, so I nod yeah, and I lead her to the car.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Oliver
Fuck. This is really going to kill me.
A fully stocked bar in the corner.
And Luna, next to me, hurt and gorgeous and completely irresistible.
I suck a breath through my teeth. Push out a heavy exhale.
This is a party. I've been to a million parties.
Yeah, this is the first time I'm attending sober. But my dad and Daisy and the state of California are wrong. I'm not an addict.
I like to drink, period, the end.
Not drinking—
Not a big deal.
I shrug my shoulders. Reach for Luna. Think better of it.
We've already suffered the world's most awkward drive.
Fifteen minutes of Lorde and Luna is still nursing a frown. I didn't know that was possible. Usually, she slips into a trance like bliss the second she hears her favorite performer.
She doesn't want me closer.
But where the fuck can I put my hands? Without a drink, they're empty and awkward.
I slide them into my pockets. Look for a better distraction.
The room is already full. Half a dozen people from the shop. A handful of Patrick's friends. Cute girls. Single ones and significant others.
Forest and his girlfriend Skye are sitting on the couch. She's in his lap in some sexy mesh and lace dress. It's as loud as her platform boots. And it shows off her massive tits.
She's some kind of influencer. Or maybe just a plus-size model. Her Instagram feed is nonstop pics of her in lingerie or swimwear. She says it has something to do with body positivity, but it's hard to see beyond her epic cleavage.
Sure, she models plus-size clothes, but she's not wearing a lot of them.
I try to hold on to that.
Stare at her lush legs, her dark hair, her huge tits.
Her hair is cut in a straight line at her shoulders. A cut Luna used to have. Now that her hair is short enough to bare her neck—
Fuck.
Patrick catches sight of us. Waves some kind of stay there and heads over.
"Should we have brought him something?" Luna asks.
Yeah. I usually bring a bottle to these things. But today I have nothing.
It's too obvious. Like I'm standing here naked, a blinking arrow pointing at my scars.
A bright light flashing Oliver Flynn, alcoholic fuckup.
Patrick arrives before I can reply. He greets me with a high five. Offers Luna a hug.
She takes it. Pulls him close.
Closer than she normally would.
Or maybe I can stand it less than I normally would. Now that I've kissed her. Now that it's impossible to deny how much I need her.
He's fucking touching her.
What the fuck is he doing touching her?
My chest eases as he releases her. Then I spot the bottle in his hand—Bud Light, of course—and it tenses again.
"Thanks for coming." His voice is happy drunk. He's already gone. This early.
It's obvious too. He's standing there, all smooth and confident, like he thinks he's smooth and sober.
Am I that obvious?
"You need anything." He points to the bar. "And you, Luna. You're Daisy's friend, right?"
"I'm Luna," she says. "No qualifier needed."
He chuckles. Leans a little closer. Into flirting distance. "Sean's ex?"
"What did I just say?" she teases.
His laugh is lighter this time. "Gorgeous goddess?"
"That one, I'll take." Her red lips curl into a smile. That same shade of deep, slightly pink red.
Fuck, I need to taste that lipstick.
"How about, Luna, mistress of the boom box?" he asks.
"Boom box?" Her brow knits in confusion.
He chuckles, again. "The music." He motions to the stereo setup in the back. "Boom box is something we used to say in the old days."
"How old are you turning?" She shoots him an I don't buy it expression. "You don't look forty."
"It's the plastic surgery. Does wonders," he says.
She laughs. "I can see that." She reaches out. Touches him. Her fingers on his jaw.
I have to press my palm into my thigh to keep from grabbing her.
"Well, give me his number," she says. "In case I need it."
"Oh no, I can't allow anyone to mar perfection." He smiles, pure charm.
She smiles back, endeared. Or pretending. Or trying to make me jealous.
Is she that petty?
Am I that desperate to believe I matter to her?
"I hope you like eighteen-year-olds singing about getting dumped," I say.