After a long beat, he finally said, "Let's go get some more boxes."
I exhaled sharply, spared for another moment from what was sure to be the second most painful conversation of my life—the first being the day I told Sassy I couldn't marry her.
We hauled the last of her things down in silence, the scrape of cardboard and crunch of gravel fillin' what words couldn't. When I slid the final box into Rhett's truck bed, he flipped up the tailgate.
"Drink?" he asked.
"Yeah." My nod was slow, heavy. "Drink would be good."
CHAPTERTWO
Rhettand I slid onto stools, the bartop wood worn smooth by decades of elbows and spilled beer.
Hank shuffled over, toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. He poured Rhett a clean two fingers of whiskey, neat. Mine came second, dropped hard enough to splash over my hand.
"First one's on the house," he muttered. "Jilted groom discount."
Rhett shifted like he wanted to say somethin', but I just mumbled, "Thanks, Hank," and wiped my hand on my joggers.
Jilted groom.Not technically true. I was the one who walked away. But hell if it didn't feel like I'd been the one left behind.
Hank didn't move on. Just leaned on the bar, his cloudy eye fixed on me. "Whole damn town's still talkin' 'bout it. Mary Lou at the diner says she had the potato salad ready for two hundred people. Froze it. You know how nasty frozen potato salad is, Lancaster?"
I tipped the whiskey back in one swallow, let it scorch my throat. "Can't say I've tried it."
"Don't," Hank said flatly. "Same as leavin' a girl standin' at the altar—don't make no damn sense."
I drummed my fingers against the bar, jaw tight.
Also not true.
I broke it off days before. But close enough, I guess, for a town where gossip was gospel.
Hank snorted. "Your daddy'd have tanned your hide for pullin' some shit like that."
That one landed like a punch to the gut. I shoved my glass forward for another pour, because if Hank was intent on twistin' the knife, I needed more whiskey to dull the blade.
Hank wiped at the bar where my glass had been like he couldn't scrub me off fast enough. "Shame, too. Girl lit this place up every time she walked in. Now all we got is your sorry mug."
I clenched my jaw, starin' down into the fresh pour. The amber blurred as I turned the glass in slow circles. Before I could drown myself in another swallow, Rhett's phone buzzed against the bartop. The sound was small but sharp, cuttin' right through the tension between us.
"That her?" My voice came out flat, more accusation than question.
Rhett didn't look at me when he thumbed the screen. "Yeah, it's her."
Made sense. He'd always been her first call when shit hit the fan—never me.You're my good-time guy, baby,she'd told me once.But when I need my bullies beat up, I'm callin' Rhett.
I nodded once. "All right, guess you better get gone."
Rhett finally set the phone back down, his eyes draggin' over me. "Fuck, Brody. This is weird."
I huffed out a laugh that didn't sound like me. "I know. I just… hope it'll get easier."
His stare sharpened. "Is that what you were thinkin' when you left her? That it would be easy?"
The words hit like a body blow. "No, but?—"
"Are you ever going to tell me what the fuck happened?" His voice was low but fierce, like he'd been holdin' it in too long.
