"You're behind The Gallery."
"New bar in town?" Maybe if I can piece together where I am, I can figure out how the hell I got here. Maybe I can figure out how to get back to her.
His frown deepens. "No, it's been here for a few years. Man, are you okay?"
Am I okay? The question is so absurd that I almost laugh. No, I'm not okay. I haven't been okay since I watched the woman I love pack her life into bags and walk away like the three years that we spent together meant nothing—like I meant nothing.
I try to push myself up, using the wall for support, but my limbs betray me. Everything hurts. It’s just as much as the physical ache in my body, but it’s also the soul-deep agony of losing the only person who ever saw something worth saving in me.
"Can you point me in the direction of Broadway? I can find my way home from there."
"I don't know of a Broadway around here, man.
Where the fuck am I? How far did I run this time? How many miles did I put between myself and the empty house that still smells like her perfume?
Pain shoots through my ribs, stealing my breath as I drop to my knees.
The stranger rushes forward, his concern genuine and unwanted. "You don't look so good. Let's get you lying down again, and I'll call an ambulance."
"I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter, but not as bitter as the truth. I'm anything but fine, but I'm broken in ways an ambulance can't fix. "I have people I can call."
People. Person. There’s just one person who matters, and she's probably changed her number by now.
My hands shake as I fumble for my phone, squinting at the screen through the haze of whatever the hell I did to myself last night. Before I can make the call, nausea hits me like a freight train. I toss the phone to the stranger just as my stomach empties itself of whatever poison I've been drowning in.
"Who can I call for you?" the stranger asks, sounding genuinely concerned.
"Rhea." Her name falls from my lips like a prayer, like salvation, like the only word that matters in any language. She'll come. She has to come. She's the only one who knows how to put me back together when I fall apart.
"Rhea didn't answer."
The words stop my heart. She didn't answer. She saw my name on her screen and chose to remain silent. She chose to let me drown in whatever mess I've made this time.
Where the fuck is Rhea? The question burns in my chest. Is she safe? Is she thinking about me? Or has she already started forgetting the way I take my coffee, the way I sing off-key in the shower, or the way I used to hold her when the nightmares about her mother’s death came?
"My brother, Andrew. Put it on speaker," I manage through gritted teeth.
Andrew answers on the first ring, his voice tight with worry and barely contained rage. "Jesus, fuck, you're alive. Where are you?"
The stranger explains we’re located at a bar behind the CNN Center in Atlanta.
Atlanta.
I'm five hours from home, five hours from everything that matters.
"In fucking Atlanta?! How did you end up in Atlanta, Gray?" Andrew's shout makes my head pound worse.
How did I end up here? How did I end up anywhere without her?
The last clear memory I have is watching Rhea's taillights disappear down our street, taking my future with them.
"Does it really matter right now, man? I need to get back to Nashville."
Back to what? The empty mansion? The silent phone? The bed that's too big, cold, and too full of her ghost?
Another wave of pain doubles me over, and I can't hold back the scream this time. The agony is nothing compared to the ache in my chest where my heart used to be.
"What's wrong with him?" Andrew's tone changes, fear creeping in.
