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Our eyes meet and I shrug, flashing a small, rueful smile. “I hate it when people say sorry for someone dying. It just feels so…”
“Empty?” His mouth quirks. “Agreed.” A moment passes, and I know it’s coming before he even says it, and I brace myself. “What happened to your sister…that sucks too. Big time.”
I nod, unable to say anything around the mountain-sized boulder lodged in my throat.
Blowing out a breath, he brings the cup back to his lips, taking a big gulp.
Neither of us say anything for a while. And it’s…well, it’s awkward, though maybe that’s only the case for me. Everything’s kind of awkward for me. But Will seems as comfortable as ever, and despite how jealous of this fact I am…I can’t deny that’s it’s…nice.
Hanging out with someone who’s like me. Someone who gets it.
Not just because he’s gay too, but unlike my friends back in Allentown, he clearly can relate to I’ve been through. With Izzy. Losing my sister…
Sure, I don’t know the details surrounding his boyfriend’s death. But the fact that, for once, it’s not just my grief stilting the conversation and making things weird…well, it makes it easier. Like there’s, ironically enough, more space for my own grief to stretch out.
With Mason, and hell, even Waylon…
I suffocate under it.
“‘The center cannot hold,’” I murmur quietly.
“What was that?”
I lift my gaze from where I was staring down my empty cup. “Oh, uh. Nothing.”
His mouth quirks, the seemingly ever-present amusement shining back at me from his eyes. “Another drink?”
I nod strongly. “Yes, please.”
Well, there goes my vow to never get drunk around Mason again…
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Jeremy and Will are drunk off their asses.
As is just about everybody else, thanks to whatever the hell Ivy put in that giant cooler, and was handing out like Gatorade at a marathon.
We end up closing earlier than usual, having to call more cabs and rideshares than ever before—which is a bitch to do, and time-consuming, seeing as we’re in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately, most people can just walk home.
On the bright side, we made a fucking killing tonight.
“See? Told you I’d close us an hour early.”
Shaking my head, I glance at the guys currently huddled over a table against the wall, giggling amongst themselves, their mouths stained blue. “And them?”
Ivy follows my gaze, and shrugs. “Casualties. They didn’t have to drink it.”
“You told Will it was bad juju for the game,” Waylon says wryly from where he stacks clean glasses together.
“Yeah, and just like all the other idiots”—she sweeps a hand around the room, her sharp black nails glinting off the light—“he couldn’t resist.”
I snort.
“And Jeremy? What about him?” Waylon asks.
“Jeremy wanted to get shitfaced, plain and simple.”
At her words, I feel a tug of unease, and I flit a look over to the only remaining occupied table, frowning.
