Cooper wipes fake tears from his eyes. “This is beautiful. Somebody kiss, come on.”
“Don’t make it weird,” Ben says.
"You make it weird by denying the genuine connection between men," Cooper says.
Then he drags all of us into a deeply disorganized group hug.
Tequila is incredible.
Kowalski eventually finds me tilting slightly at one of the tables and wordlessly puts nachos in front of me.
“Eat,” he demands.
“You know what, I should have said it earlier, but I love you too,” I tell him, while also hoping he understood my incoherent mumbling.
The food helps. The water helps. I come back to myself in increments after a while, aware enough to be slightly embarrassed about the pool table incident but the guys are happy so I decide to let it go.
I look up and search for Rhys.
He’s in the corner with someone I half-recognize from around campus. Dark hair. Good looking. Decent build. Laughing at something Rhys said with the ease of someone who doesn’t know yet that Rhys Callahan laughs with everyone like that. He’s not special.
Rhys catches me staring and smiles. That taunting one he saves just for me.
And then, without breaking eye contact with me, he leans in close to this stranger, says something low near his ear, hand on his arm. The stranger responds immediately, with a wicked look in his eyes. Rhys laughs — openly, the husky laugh I’ve heard maybe three times. And then he lets this stranger pull him in closer. The stranger laughs—a throaty, pleased sound, fucking melting under Rhys’ attention.
But he has his eyes on me the entire time.
Rhys’s fingers skate down his arm. The guy leans into it, pushing back, grinning like they’ve shared this joke before. Rhys murmurs something else, mouth close to the guy’s skin, and the guy just tips his head back, exposing his throat like he’s offering it up to a vampire. I finally tear myself away because I’m this close to losing my shit.
No one else is even noticing this. It’s a private show just for me. And Rhys knows. He’s doing it for me. He wants me to see this—wants me to burn. To feel it all.
I can’t move. I can’t think. I’m pinned in place by jealousy so sharp it might as well be a blade to my throat. It does burn. I taste it in the back of my throat, bitter and hot. My whole body goes tight, jaw locked, fists clenched under the table. My heart’s pounding hard enough to hurt. I want to fight. I want to drag Rhys off, slam him into the wall, and wipe that look off his face. I want to take him for myself. And he fucking knows this. He knows it all.
Instead, I force myself up, legs shaky, blood boiling. I barely see the crowd, just the path to the hallway, to the bathroom. I need space. Air. Anything but this. I slam the door behind me, lock it, and grip the sink until my knuckles ache. My reflection looks like someone ready to break something. Maybe myself.
It’s not enough. I want to scream.
Rage.
Pure, immediate, completely unreasonable red is all I can see.
He’s just trying to piss me off because I ended whatever we had going on. I fucking hate him. I hate him and I’m gripping the edge of this sink like it’s the only thing keeping me upright.
I slap myself. Flat palm, right across the cheek. Sharp enough to sting. I don’t understand why watching Rhys Callahan almost put his mouth on some stranger’s neck feels like a hand reaching into my chest and squeezing until something cracks.
It’s meaningless. He’s meaningless. The whole thing — the locker room, the shower, all of it — it meant nothing. He said so. I said so. We shook on it. Gentleman’s fucking agreement.
I turn the cold tap on and splash water on my face. Then again. This is exactly what he does. He gets under your skin and he stays there and he pushes until you react and if I walk out of this bathroom and spare him a single glance he wins.
I’m going home. Right now. Sticking to my word. It’s done.
Walk out, find the guys, say goodbye, leave.
Don’t look toward the corner.
I give myself one long look in the mirror. One more silent pep talk.
Don’t. Look. At. Rhys.
