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“I was too young. Way too young.”
“So was she.”
“Cruz, I asked her to abort it.”
I saw red. All. Fucking. Red. I couldn’t see anything but the blood I wanted to draw from that bastard at how he’d just reduced Bear—a fucking amazing kid he’d had nothing to do with shaping—to ‘it’.
“It has a name now. A personality, too. Likes. Dislikes. It was growing inside her. Keeping it was her right.”
“If I’d stayed, I would never have had a chance to be something. I wanted more for myself.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re giving me your side of the story after being so self-sacrificing and stoic for so long. I’m really starting to root for you on this hero’s journey of self-discovery,” I said sarcastically. “You planning on backpacking through Europe to find yourself next?”
“She decided for both of us. It wasn’t fair.” Rob yanked at his hair, shaking his head.
“Fair flew out the window the moment you turned your back on her, you bastard.”
Rob reached for his drink, emptying the glass in one swig and slamming it against the table, sneering.
He looked up, his eyes empty and cold.
“You’re still in love with her.”
And you’re still not.
If he loved her, he never would have acted the way he had. Or like this.
“Just remember, Cruz. Even if you fucked her, she is, and always will be, my leftovers. I was there first. I tasted her first. I—”
I didn’t let him finish the sentence.
I tackled him to the floor, throwing the first punch, which landed square on his nose. He got up and stumbled backward, steadying himself by grabbing the edge of another booth and someone’s wig with it.
The person slapped Rob’s hand away. Rob smiled at me, his teeth bloodied with the popped vessels I probably damaged with my fist.
Blake Shelton sang that God gave him someone, and I was about to hand the Almighty another son of His in the shape of Robert Gussman.
My ex-best friend hurled his entire weight at me, crouching down to try to get me in the stomach. But I was faster, not to mention sober, and sidestepped, making him land against our empty booth in a heap of limbs.
He groaned in pain, and I heard the music lower and people behind us running to break up the fight.
I grabbed the hem of his collar, lifting him up and tugging at him until his eyes found mine.
“Don’t.”
I punched his face.
“You.”
I punched his stomach.
“Dare.”
I kicked him in the balls.
“Call her leftovers.”
Punch. Punch. Punch.
