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All I feel is ... disappointed. Disappointed that he’s not Sonnie. And disappointed that I’m disappointed.
I don’t want to be that girl. I think I manage to smile, or at the very least, bend my lips into something other than a grimace and back away a step, shaking my head.
His eyebrows lift. This probably wasn’t the reaction he was hoping for. Hell, it wasn’t the reaction I was hoping for.
“Thanks. But no. I ... need to...” I point blindly past him. “Great set,” I add over my shoulder as I turn.
Less cool, I have never been.
Across the bar, through the dancing, green-lit bodies, my eyes catch Kenzi. She’s shaking her head, but her face is split with a knowing grin. And, now it could be my imagination, but I’m pretty sure she’s mouthing, “Holding out.”
Don’t care. She’s wrong. I’m not holding out. I’m also not hanging around.
I escape through the swinging wooden bar doors that lead to The Beach Hut’s sand-covered parking lot. Cheeks hot. Chest heaving. A ringing in my head that may or may not have anything to do with the thumping music.
Alcohol—so fucking dramatic.
There’s no way I’m holding out, I’m an island—I’m a mother fucking island.
In the five and three-quarter minutes it takes the taxi to deliver me to my bungalow, I’ve already sobered up enough to cringe. And cringed enough to consider leaving the island—tonight.
“Where’s your luck tonight, Flynn? Big fat liar.” I grumble as I unclip my seat belt and hand the driver his payment.
Warm, salty air lifts the hairs on my arms as I less than gracefully drag myself from the car and make my way around the side of the bungalow.
Still mumbling insults to my dead friend, I don’t notice the figure sitting on the middle porch step until I’m practically on top of him. “Shit. Sonnie. What the fuuu..” A few things catch the words in my throat simultaneously. The half-drunk bottle of scotch, or whisky, or something equally strong he’s rolling between his hands. The black pants and black button-down look he’s seriously, and I mean seriously working.
His head tilts to the side heavily when he finally stops staring past me. “Stan?” He drops the bottle onto the step beside him, then drags his hand over his mouth, each movement an effort to watch, and an effort to pull off going by the massive sigh that follows.
My nose twitches. Even the tang of the ocean on the air isn’t enough to disguise the scent of alcohol on his breath.
I thought he said he didn’t drink.
“Everything okay?” I wince. Stupid question. Everything is clearly not okay.
“I tried to pick someone up tonight.” He shakes his head and clicks his tongue off the front of his teeth. “At a fucking funeral.” His words are loud in the semi-darkness—loud and slurred, and so not the words I wanted to hear.
Reigning in the vicious twist in my gut isn’t the easiest thing I’ve ever done, but I do it before it has a chance to make itself known on my face. Who am I to even get jealous about this shit? I nearly ... I wanted to ... okay, I thought briefly about—Brain brain kicks in. “Wait, did you say funeral?”
He nods. Lips pressed tightly, eyebrows tipped up in the middle. “Mom. Died. She’s dead.”
I blink my bugged-out eyes back into their sockets. I can’t help it. I’m not good with people dying. I rub my hand in a circle over the middle of my chest. I don’t have words for this. I didn’t when Flynn died, and I sure as hell don’t now.
He shakes his head again then presses the palms of his hands into his eyes and rocks forward until there’s a very real danger he’s gonna topple face-first into the sand.
I hunker down into a squat and push back on his knees. Not in a million years did I think I’d be the soberest person in the room tonight.
He lets me guide him back onto his step. “I’m just like her.” His hands move upwards until his fingers tangle in his already messed up hair. “Just fucking like her.”
I blow out a long breath, my eyes having a hard time knowing where to settle and my heartbeat far too pronounced to be healthy. “Sonnie.” I cover his white knuckles with my fingers and attempt to guide them from his hair without ripping it out in the process. “Stop.”
He drops his hands into his lap and blinks slowly, the blue-green of his eyes, glassy and rimmed with red. “For someone like you...” His hands twist until his fingers are threaded through mine. “I think I could be ... I could try to be...” His cheeks puff out. “...better. Good. Something else.”
If it’s possible to see a train of thought get lost in transit I think I just did. “You’re not making much sense here, buddy.”
“The woman. The funeral ... I didn’t ... couldn’t.”
My eyes widen before I can stop them. He could mean a million things by that. A million drunken things. No reason to panic. No reason for any of the warm and fuzzies that have just invaded my chest to make me take off swimming back to Baltimore. “I think you need to sleep it off.” I pull myself onto my feet, then drag him up with me.
