Page 145 of We Drank the Dawn

“I don’t know anything except what Cody said. You don’t remember anything?”

He nodded. “I remember a lot of it.”

“What parts?”

He tipped his face toward the ceiling. “I remember drinking a ton, obviously. I remember the game we played, laughing, playing some pool, the different bars we went to.”

“Do you remember me taking you home?”

His brow furrowed then he nodded. “Yes.”

“Hm.” I didn’t want to draw any conclusions but it did sound like Peter remembered the entire night aside from the woman he kissed. Again, not impossible. Just odd. “Was she mad about that?”

“Me kissing someone?”

“All of it.”

“Oh, yeah. She was extremely hurt. And she had good reason. Even some of the stuff I said to her before we left the open mic…” He shook his head. “I was being an idiot.”

“I’m glad you’re not backing off. You have a good plan in place. Things will turn out okay.”

Peter had spent a long time on the phone with a Denver florist and had some kind of beads rush-ordered from Etsy to the floral shop so that they could deliver the flowers with the gift. If she didn’t call him after that, the only option would be to fly him out there and let them duke it out on their front porch.

“I’m worried she won’t call.”

“She’ll call.”

But my words brought him no comfort. No light rose in his eyes.

I excused myself to go to the bunkhouse then returned with his tennis shoes. Putting them in his lap, I said, “Let’s go.”

He sighed. “I don’t have the energy.”

“Dig deep then. You’re not allowed to wallow.”

He gave a tiny, exhausted laugh then lifted himself from the barrel.

DAWN

FORTY-NINE

Sarah

Ispread a fresh sheet and blanket over my massage table at the sport’s center, my muscles twitching with exertion. More than anything I just wanted to fall into bed and sleep for hours on end, but I had one more client before I could go home. My eyes were swollen, my head hurt, and my nose was stuffy. Unable to outrun my feelings, they had visited ad nauseam, and I was sick of crying. All week my clients asked if I was sick.

And I had to blame allergies.

As I tucked the blanket under the corners of the table, my back zipped tight and my muscles protested. I braced my hand against the wall as my head swam. Jeez, maybe I was getting sick.

Working stupid hours, I’d kind of asked for it.

Waking at five most mornings, finishing with Instacart around nine most nights.

It was a schedule destined to give me the flu or something.

Satisfied the room was ready, I peered down at my phone.

Friday, November 3. 4:14 p.m.