Another big swig. It goes down easier this time. By the time we’re actually getting ready, there’s a light buzz flowing through me, softening the edges of everything I’ve been holding in. Miranda digs through my clothes, tossing options around until she finds something she approves of.
“This.” She holds out a black T-shirt to me.
I eye it skeptically, before cutting my eyes over to her. “That’s… actually normal. What’s the catch?”
“It’s a good choice. No catch. Just wear it.”
I wait for her to bring out some questionable fashion choices, like she does for the clubs at college, but she never does.
Thank fuck for small wins today.
Once we’re both dressed, she pushes me out of the house, arm in mine, before we get in the car and head to the bar.
I assumed by the way she wanted to let loose, that we would be going to a club with flashing lights and bass pounding out the speakers. Instead, the dive bar sitting in front of me is just … normal.
My shoulders sag in relief, staring up at the neon sign. Miranda takes that as a sign of hesitation, grabbing my wrist and pulling me across the parking lot and inside before I can second-guess it.
“Drinks. We need a fucking drink first.”
I nod, letting her drag me to the bar. She orders us both beers and shots that look fruity as fuck. I prefer whiskey and she knows it, but that alone tells me she picked what she did for a reason.
We clink our shot glasses together, tapping them against the bar before gulping it down. The shot burns differently than the drinks from earlier, causing my nostrils to flare and lips to pucker.
“Better?” she asks.
“No. You just tried to kill me with a lemon drop shot. That’s evil as fuck. You know I hate those things.” I shudder.
She just laughs and gestures for me to follow her, finding a high top in the back corner so we can watch people.
“I figured this would be a lot better than any club that we’ve gone to around Mizzou.”
I chuckle, cracking a slight smile. “You’d be right about that.”
We both take sips of our beers, settling into the stools.
Finally in a talkative mood, we sit there, chatting about school, her boy issues, old shenanigans…Anything that’snotRhett Thornwood.
Even sitting here laughing and drinking with Miranda, two towns over, my thoughts still go back to him—about what he said and how I had to walk away.
I eye the different guys around the bar, but no one looks remotely good to me.
They don’t compare to Rhett—to Cedarbrook’s charming golden boy.
Because even here, surrounding myself in distractions, I can’t escape him.
No one compares.
No one even comes close.
RHETT
Idon’t usually come to The Bar on a busy Friday night.
But after telling Cash what I had told my mom, and him putting together that Colt and I have something going on, he thought dragging me out for a few beers and shots was the best thing for his “heartbroken brother.”
I find a spot at the far end of the bar, away from the pool tables, and Halle clocks me the second I walk in. Her expression is quizzical, but she smoothes it before coming over with a beer, which she places in front of me and moves off without comment.
Great, so he told her something too.
