Page 96 of Tennessee Trouble

Anton swivels on his stool, eyes studying me across the bar. “Yup, that’s what it is. Heartbreak.”

“Shut up.”

Both brothers snicker at my basic playground insult. Fair—I could do better. Or well, I used to be able to do better. Lately my head’s been too fuzzy to be a smartass.

“You wanna talk about it?” Anton presses.

Fucker…

“What part of shut up makes you think I want to talk about it?”

Anton shrugs, coming up short for an answer. Milo, however, sees his chance to tag in.

“The part where you said you were going to Tennessee for a weekend, ended up staying more than a month to play house with the owner of the company that was mildly threatening to sue us?” He throws his bar towel over his shoulder, turning to face me while leaning against the bar, giving off his best Sam Malone impression. “Or maybe the part where the sound of your voice was different while you were there. That you’ve sounded more like yourself—like the guy who convinced me to build a still in the middle of the woods when we were sixteen.”

I snort out a huff, shaking my head. I sound more like myself? He’s full of it.

“Like the guy who tried to convince me to blow off all my responsibilities and buy a last-minute ticket to Colorado for a Rocky Mountain adventure a couple of summers ago, telling me that all this would be right here waiting for me when I got back.”

“An opportunity you didn’t take, by the way,” I try reminding him.

Milo shrugs, the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth paired with the glint in his eye telling me he has zero regrets about skipping out on Fort Collins that summer. Can’t blame him—at least not fully—since that was the summer he fell hard and fast for his better half.

Shoving the newly tapped keg underneath the bar, I turn to fully face my best friend, ready to defend myself. To tell him that he’s got this all wrong. That this isn’t as big of a deal as he’s making it.

The rattle of Anton’s phone against the rough-cut wooden bar punches through the air, cutting me off.

“Hey, baby,” Anton answers, pushing away from the bar.

I watch him walk toward the large, open, garage-style doors that lead to the grassy area out back that we covered with a pavilion a couple of years ago to start hosting food truck nights. Anton’s voice fades the farther he gets from us, but that doesn’t stop a pang hitting me straight in the gut. Just listening to him answer the phone like that, knowing that his person is on the other end, makes the image of Lindee flash into my brain. Those incredible, unforgettable hazel eyes.

I rock backward, taking a step to try to catch myself, not wanting to lose my balance, feeling like I took a sucker punch to the gut. Reaching out, I lean against the bar to steady myself, closing my eyes to try and push her image out of my brain.

It doesn’t work.

If anything, it sears it into my gray matter even further, leaving a permanent imprint.

Fuck.

“She’s pretty special, huh?”

I look up at Milo, not bothering to respond.

“This Lindsay⁠—”

“Lindee,” I correct him, faster than I can think.

He smirks again, his silent tell that he did that on purpose. To get me going. Damn it, it worked.

“Yeah, she was. Is.”

Sauntering toward me, Milo stops right before reaching the tap pulls, turning around to lean backward against the bar. He looks relaxed, happy, which only serves to make me that much more anxious. Because I know that feeling. I felt that way when I was with Lindee in her lab.

“I know you’ll never admit it, at least not out loud, but…you’ve been off for the last year or so. Not quite yourself. Ever since the wedding.”

I nod, silently agreeing. He’s not entirely correct—I’m willing to admit it. Sort of. Now, anyway. A few weeks ago I likely wouldn’t have been, but now—post Lindee—I see it. I feel it.

“I can admit it.” I shrug. “I’ve been…”