Prologue
Levi
A Few Months Ago
The whiskey had been a mistake. Not the first glass—that one was fine. Not even the second. The second was just the night settling in, the familiar weight of a Tuesday at Holloway’s, my brother Jude’s voice carrying across the noise, the jukebox cycling through something old and slow. The third was where things started to tilt. By the fourth, I’d stopped keeping count.
The problem was Travis. The problem was always Travis, or more specifically, the problem was me sitting at a corner table, slowly losing my mind as I watched my childhood best friend, Becca, have dinner with Travis. This time, it was the way she’d leaned slightly away from him, the way his hand covered hers on the table, and her fingers didn’t curl back the way they used to, that was driving me out of my head.
I’d been watching her all evening without meaning to. That’s the thing no one tells you about loving your best friend is, you don’t get to stop. She’d been three tables away all night, and I’d felt it like a splinter working its way deeper—every time shetilted her head, every time she reached up to tuck her hair back, every time her mouth pressed into that flat, patient line that meant she was deciding whether or not to say something she’d regret. I knew every version of her face. That was the problem. I’d grown up with her, I’d loved her before I knew what love was, and then she’d gone and chosen Travis in tenth grade, and I’d spent the years since then on the outside of something I didn’t have a name for yet. Watching her from a careful distance and telling myself that I was fine, that friendship was enough, that I was grateful for whatever I got to keep.
But tonight, something was different. I could see it from across the room. The way she held herself—shoulders slightly turned, spine straight. She’d made up her mind and was waiting for him to catch up. I’d watched her with Travis for years, watched the slow erosion of all the brightness in her, and I’d done what I always did—kept my mouth shut, been a good friend, waited. And somewhere between the second whiskey and the third, I’d started hoping, the way I always tried not to hope, that this was the last time. That she was finally done with him. That whatever door had been closed to me for all these years was about to open, and I just had to be patient a little longer, just had to hold on?—
This time was different. I could see it from across the room, even through four whiskeys, even through the self-deception I’d spent years perfecting. She was done. He just hadn’t accepted it yet.
She didn’t see me. Or she did, and filed me under background the way she had for a while now. Either way, I watched her stand up, gather her jacket, and say something short and final. Travis’s face shifted to a familiar entitled fake smile, the one that meant he wasn’t going to make it easy. I’d seen it time and time again back in high school. He stood too. She didn’t wait for him.
I should have stayed inside. My brother Jude was saying something behind me. I didn’t hear it.
The parking lot air hit, tasting of rain and pine, and the bite that came off the mountain when the air had turned cold. I saw her first—standing beside her car, keys in hand, shoulders set, watching Travis follow her out with the expression of a woman who had run out of patience a long time ago and was just waiting for the other person to notice.
I also saw her best friend, Harper, standing near the pub entrance, holding a bag of takeout with her seven-year-old daughter Bella pressed against her side, both of them watching the Travis situation unfold with the focused attention of people who had been keeping score for a while.
Harper saw me at the same moment. Her eyes flicked from my face to the whiskey I was still holding, and something in her expression shifted to worry. She was my friend too. We’d all grown up together.
I should have gone back inside. This was none of my business.
“This isn’t over,” Travis said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“It is,” Becca said. “It’s over forever, and I won’t answer this time.”
He drove off too fast, too loud, needing the last word even when he’d lost the argument. Becca stood there a moment after his taillights disappeared. I watched the tension leave her shoulders one degree at a time, the long exhale, the way she pressed her palm flat against her car door like she was trying to keep her balance.
I crossed the lot before I fully decided to. With no thoughts in my head except getting to her.
She turned when she heard my footsteps. “Levi.” Her voice was careful.
“You okay?” I asked.
“Fine.” The word was automatic, worn smooth from overuse. Her eyes moved over my face and stopped at the glass of whiskey in my hand. “How much have you had?”
“Some.”
“More than some.” She wasn’t unkind. She was correct. It was obvious.
I stopped in front of her. Close enough that I could see the parking lot light catch the fine strands of her hair, the faint smudge of mascara at the corner of one eye. She’d been crying earlier, or trying not to. My chest pulled tight in the way it always did around her, that old familiar ache. Fifteen years of being careful around her. Fifteen years of telling myself I was just glad she was okay. Fifteen years of watching her choose him, and telling myself it was fine, it was fine, it was fine.
“He’s not right for you,” I said. The words came out more coherently than I expected.
She huffed a breath. “I know that.”
“You’ve known for a while. Haven’t you?”
“Levi—”
“I know.” I held up a hand. “I know, it’s not my business. It’s never been my business. I’ve been very respectful of that boundary.”
Something crossed her face—amusement, sadness, I couldn’t tell which. “You have,” she said. “You’ve been a very good friend.”
