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“You need to see her,” Marco interjects. “Talk to her. Tell her everything you just told us–about your fears, your love, your willingness to fight for her. Then, together, you can figure out the best way to move forward.”
“Maybe,” I agree, my chest swelling with newfound determination and even hope. My cousins may be right. I can’t let Hannah go without a fight. She means too much to me.
“By walking away without a fight, you've already lost her. You had something special with Hannah, and you just let it go,” Marco says.
“Marco's right,” Leo adds, leaning forward in the booth. “You didn't even put up a fight for your relationship. We all have our demons, but that doesn't mean we can't fight for love.”
I look at both of them, their expressions a mixture of frustration and empathy. My chest feels tight, my thoughts consumed by the memory of Hannah's face when I walked out her door.
“Remember when we were kids?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “Alter boys, all three of us. Who would've thought we'd end up where we are now?”
“Definitely not me,” Marco chuckles, the mood lightening a bit. “But that's life, right? It's unpredictable.”
“Damn straight,” Leo agrees. “And you know what else is unpredictable? Love. But that doesn't mean we shouldn't fight for it.”
“You're lucky,” Marco says, his voice filled with sincerity. “I'd give anything to have more than just a fuck here and there. You and Hannah have something real. Don't throw it away like it's nothing.”
“Besides,” Leo chimes in, smirking as he swirls the ice in his drink, “you've always been one stubborn bastard. Why give up so easily?”
I can't help but smile at their words, knowing they both have a point. They've been with me through thick and thin, and they've never steered me wrong.
“All right, all right,” I concede, my resolve beginning to strengthen. “Maybe I did walk away too quickly. Maybe I should've fought harder.”
“Damn right.” Marco nods, his eyes meeting mine with determination. “Now it's up to you to fix it.”
“Good man.” Leo grins, raising his glass in a toast. “To fighting for love and finding our way back home.”
“Salute,” Marco and I echo, clinking our glasses together before drinking, the alcohol burning like liquid courage.
Despite the growing warmth in my chest, uncertainty still gnaws at me. I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking a tightrope between love and destruction. My cousins' words have given me hope, but they haven't fully convinced me.
“All right,” I finally say, forcing myself to sound more confident than I feel. “I'll stop moping around. But I need to think this through before I take any action.”
“Fair enough,” Marco acknowledges, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. “Just don't wait too long, okay? We both know women like Hannah can be snatched up in seconds.”
“Believe me, I know,” I mutter, my thoughts turning from pity to rage. The thought of her being with another man sends homicidal thoughts through me. “I’ll think on it.”
“Good,” Leo grins, his mood shifting as he claps his hands together. “Now, let's lighten up the atmosphere a bit, shall we?”
“Agreed,” Marco chuckles, raising his glass. “To not having bullets in our asses!”
The absurdity of the toast pulls a half-hearted chuckle from me, and I hold my own glass up to join theirs. “Amen to that.”
Our glasses clink together with a satisfying sound, and for a moment, I allow myself to forget about the weight on my shoulders. We drink to our shared camaraderie–three cousins bound by blood, loyalty, and the ghosts of our pasts.
As the night wears on, the conversation drifts away from Hannah and back to lighter subjects. I appreciate my cousins' attempts to distract me, but I can't help but feel the persistent tug of my thoughts pulling me back to her.
I let her go.
I fucked up.
But it wouldn’t be the first time I sabotaged my life.
The question now is what will I do next? Continue to dig my grave, or fucking walk toward the light that is Hannah?
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Hannah
The next week, I drag myself back into work, but I’m wearing Armando’s faded Cubs t-shirt—the one with a hole near the collar. It was in my hamper because I’d slipped it on after having sex one night, so he didn’t pack it when he left.
I don’t know why I put it on today—to torture myself? It really makes no sense.
I’ve really been thinking over what my mom said to me.
Maybe I was hasty in breaking up with Armando. Certainly not telling him about the baby was wrong. I knew that even before my mom let her judgment bleed through. But hearing it reflected back at me brought it home.
I’ve been feeling like the injured party, maybe because my heart’s so damn sore, but really, I’m the one who caused this pain. For both of us, assuming Armando’s also grieving.
