“For one.”

  “You miss them.”

  He snorts. “Next question.”

  “Why not go back? If you’re so miserable being alone, why not—”

  “Because I fucked up. See? Told you. Story of my life, right? I can’t hack it at home so I leave. I have this good gig that millions would kill to have where I get to hang with my best friends every day and do what I love with them, and I leave.”

  “I don’t think you’re being fair to yourself.”

  “It’s like when everything is at its best for me, he comes back and I have to leave.”

  “Who are we talking about, Vince?”

  He opens another beer and downs the entire thing in one long drink. “He’s dying of cancer.”

  “Who?” I demand, freaked out and confused.

  “My dad.”

  “Oh.” It’s all I can think to say as I consider how to react. I don’t know how to feel about a man I’ve vilified for almost fifteen years. “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

  “I’m not.” His words scream in the silence. His chuckle that follows mocks it. “That makes me a heartless bastard, doesn’t it? The fucker’s dying, and I feel absolutely nothing inside over it.”

  I reach out and link my fingers with his, wanting to show support. “It makes you human, Vince.”

  “It makes me weak. He always had a way of doing that to me. Making me weak. Tearing me down just when I thought I’d made something of myself or figured my shit out. Letting me know how little he thought of me. How little the world thought of me.”

  “I understand why you might think it looks that way, but—”

  “No wonder I need to stand on a stage and have thousands scream at me to feel a thing.” He runs a hand through his hair and sets his head back again to look at the sky. “He broke me in a way that I don’t think can ever be fixed. I’ve tried. Over and over, but it’s just no use.”

  “You’re not broken, Vince.”

  “Humph.”

  His words eat at me. They weave into my soul. They explain things I’ve only ever assumed and never knew for certain.

  “You never talked about him. I never knew or I would have . . . helped. I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I don’t know what I could have done. But from what I could see, I don’t think you owe your dad much at all. I’m sorry he’s dying of cancer—no one, regardless of the life they lived, deserves that—but I’m mostly sorry he hasn’t loved you like a father should. Dads are supposed to love and support their kids. They’re supposed to pick them up and dust them off when they’re hurt. They’re supposed to be a pillar of strength, not a barbed wire fence holding you back.”

  “That night? The window? That’s why I had to leave. I couldn’t do it anymore. I feared what he had turned me into. That I’d snap and either become him or do something I could never take back.”

  “Vince.”

  “The irony is now I’ve spent years doing things I can’t take back. Fucking up. Proving him right.” He flexes and unflexes his hand.

  “I disagree. You’ve—”

  “And now I’m desperate to prove him fucking wrong before he dies so I can give him the ultimate fuck you. So I can win. How sick is that? What kind of person does that make me?”

  “A real one.” A broken one.

  I rest my head on his shoulder and try to process all these things he’s throwing at me, that he’s been holding in, and I still don’t know how to help him. I don’t know if I can.

  He presses a kiss to the top of my head and just leaves his mouth there, his thoughts so heavy I can practically feel them. “Do you ever wonder what could have been?” he murmurs.

  “In regard to?” I ask when I already know the answer. The same question I’ve asked myself a million times, not just for myself but for the little boy tucked in his bed inside.

  “Us.”

  My exhale is even, my thoughts measured. “I did. For a long time. Then I didn’t.”

  “Why’d you stop?”

  Because I had to. Because you didn’t give me a choice. “Because we’re two different people now. We live vastly different lives.”

  “But despite that, there’s still something there. There’s still something between us that we keep coming back to somehow.”

  “The chemistry sure. But when the lust fades, when it’s not years in between that we’d see each other, but rather minute to minute or hour to hour, I’m not sure that there’d be much left of us.” I have to believe that. If I don’t then I’m left with hope for something that will never be.

  “Is that why you left me in San Francisco?”

  It’s my turn to look at the sky. To try and find any star that hasn’t been drowned out by the city lights. “It seems we’re better at walking away from each other than we are at actually being together.”

  “Well, at least I can claim to be good at something, huh?” His laugh falls flat though.

  “Still doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

  He nods, his lips pursed. “Then why did you let it happen at all? You could have shut your hotel room door, stuck to your guns about McMann, and I would’ve had to suffice with my hand and my fucking misery.”

  I smile at the image he paints, and it softens at the memory of us together. Giving and taking. Loving and letting go.

  “I didn’t let it happen,” I finally say.

  “Uh. I was there. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just me.”

  “That’s not what I meant. It was inevitable, right? It was us.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “We’re like a match, Vince. We start out hot, almost violent in our need for each other, before burning completely out. The other night, we struck the match.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, there’s just smoke.” I shrug.

  “But where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

  “And where there is fire, things get destroyed. Devastated. Become unrecognizable of what their former self was.”

  “Hey.”

  I turn to look at him, really look at him for the first time in this conversation. “Hmm?”

  He reaches out and runs the back of his hand down my cheek. Rubs his thumb over my bottom lip. Settles his hand on the curve of my neck so his thumb can idly move back and forth over my collarbone.

  “What are you saying, Shug?”

  You wear a bracelet I gave you, but you wouldn’t take my calls.

  You permanently marked yourself with a tattoo of my nickname, but you never thought it was enough to tell me.

  You look at me with love in your eyes, but it’s been over ten years since you spoke the words.

  You love me from afar, but don’t think you can love me in person.

  I reach up and cup the side of his face. Feel the coarseness of his stubble under my palm. Take in the heat of his breath on my skin. “I love you, Vince, but we can’t keep doing this. I deserve more than a piece of you every couple of years. No one’s to blame. Not you. Not me. It’s just the way we were probably meant to be.”

  I lean forward and kiss him. I pour all the love I have for him into this simple connection as tears slide down my cheeks.

  We rest our foreheads against each other’s almost as if we’re trying to let this “new reality of us” settle in. Almost as if it’s something we knew all along but now have to face.

  And when I lean back to look at him one last time, the lone tear that escapes and slides down his cheek devastates me.

  “I lied,” he murmurs.

  Jagger flashes through my mind. So have I. “About?”

  “About needing the stage to make me feel.” He clears his throat. “You make me feel complete too.” He drops his eyes for a beat before looking back at me. “But it’s not enough, is it?”

  “No.” It hurts to get the single syllable out. He nods subtly as I stand, our fingers still linked. “Your different is your beautiful too, Vince. It always has been. It always will be.”

  With that, I turn and go into the house.

  I shut the door.

  I lock it.

  I let the dust particles settle back down in the darkness.

  And then I slide down it, crumple on the floor, and cry until I can’t cry anymore.

  I’m not sure what time it is when I go to bed, but when I peek out the window, Vince is still sitting there. Still staring at the stars. Still looking as broken as ever.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Vince

  The holding cell is bright and the constant clang of things and chatter of people is enough to make a drunk man sober.

  Oh.

  Wait.

  Never fucking mind.

  I’ve been here forever the fuck long and the room is still moving.

  Maybe because it’s easier to stay drunk. Simpler to live in the haze than to feel like my chest has been pried open and my heart ripped out for shits and giggles.

  “That bad, huh, man?” my cellmate says from where he’s rolling around on his cot, unable to sit still.

  “Fuck off,” I mutter.

  “Ha. Sounds like a woman to me.”

  “Sounds like mind your own fucking business to me.”

  “Chill, man. I was just making small talk.”

  I grunt and roll onto my back, my forearm over my eyes, replaying the events of tonight. Morning. Who the hell knows what it is because I lost track of time.

  Bristol. Her porch. Her words. Her kiss goodbye.

  A bar. O’Hallahan’s, I think was the name. I don’t remember. Minding my own business. An asshole. Then another asshole who wouldn’t leave me alone. Then that fucking prick who shoved me because I didn’t want to take a goddamn picture with him.

  Bad fucking idea.

  Or maybe not. At least in here, I can’t hurt anybody else.

  The damage is done.

  Done and fucking over with.

  I should have tried harder years ago. I should have never listened to Cathy. And as I sit in this hellhole, all I can do is replay the fucking conversation from six years ago over and over again. The conversation that convinced me to forget about Bristol for good.

  “Hello?”

  “Shug?”

  “I’m sorry you have the wrong number.” Something sounds off with her voice.

  “Bristol. It’s me.”

  The woman laughs. “Hi, it’s me. This is Bristol’s mom, Cathy.”

  “Cathy. It’s Vince. How are you? It’s been years.”

  There’s a long, measured pause. “It has.”

  “I was looking for Bristol.”

  “I figured since you called her phone.” She chuckles but there’s something in the sound of it that has me sitting a little straighter. “How’d you get her number?”

  I snort and run a hand through my hair. “It’s a long story.” Like how I spent hours scrolling through all my blocked numbers trying to find it to no avail. Then breaking down and calling Fairfield High School alumni committee to track down someone who might know it. “Is she there? Is it possible for me to talk to her?”

  “She’s sleeping right now. Pulling double duty at the moment.”

  Double duty? “Everything all right?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “Vince.” A sigh that doesn’t sound good. “You know I think the world of you, but I think it’s for the best if you forget this number.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “I think you do.” She pauses and the silence eats up the distance. “Waiting a lifetime for someone to love you back is not a happy and healthy way to live.”

  “Cathy . . .”

  “Yes, I know. You love her. In your own special way. But your love is looking backward to the past instead of looking forward to the future. She deserves the forward, Vince.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  You’re right.

  You’re wrong.

  I wish I could, but I can’t.

  “You’re a good man, but at some point, you have to get off the roller coaster.” She sniffles, and I swear to God the sound hurts just as much as her words do because she’s right. All of it.

  She’s fucking right.

  I can’t love Bristol the way she deserves to be loved. Isn’t that why I walked away in the first place? Isn’t that why I’m not putting up a fight right now?

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I’m the one who has to help her pick up the pieces. After she sees you. After she catches you on the TV. After she hears you on the radio. After . . . after this last time.”

  Can’t blame her. You blocked her fucking number. You cut her off because you couldn’t deal with wanting a woman you couldn’t have. For loving a woman who deserved more. For doing exactly what her mom is saying you’re doing.

  “If you love her, the way I think you do, then you need to let her go.”

  “Jennings? You’re sprung.”

  “Fuck,” I groan as I sit up. My head feels like Gizmo is using it for a kickdrum. It should be a crime for them to take your sunglasses in here.

  “Lucky you,” my cellmate says.

  “Eat shit.”

  “You first, you grumpy fuck.”

  I shuffle out of the hallway, take the bag of my belongings they hold out to me, and do a double take when I walk into the waiting room and see Hawkin standing there.

  What the fuck?

  My expression must say as much because he says, “Were you that drunk that you don’t remember calling me to bail your sorry ass out?”

  I scrunch up my nose and give a shake to my head. I did?

  “I take that as a yes.” He chuckles. “Even you can’t talk your way out of those guys pressing charges.”

  “I don’t remember much.”

  “You did a number on them.” He points to my hands and sure enough, they’re bruised and bloody.

  A chair breaking comes back to me. The crunch of my fist connecting with a nose.

  “The fuckers were asking for—”

  “Save it for outside. You don’t want whatever it is you’re going to say posted all over the fucking place.” He puts a hand on my back and pushes me forward. “Bail’s paid. Let’s go.”

  “Wait.” I scrub a hand over my face. “There’s something I need to do first.”

  “Like what? Kiss your cellmate goodbye?” he jokes.

  “More like post the fucker’s bail.”

  “Fine. Go ahead. I’ll wait. But just a warning. You’re going to want to put those sunglasses on and pull that hat down or be prepared to say cheese when we walk out the doors. Word’s already out.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Vince

  I cross my ankles in the bed of the truck and lean against the cab at our backs. It’s that time of morning before the sun rises when the sky and the ocean are the same damn color, and you don’t know where one ends and the other begins. The seagulls’ squawking is ridiculously loud. Errant cars come in the lot every couple of minutes. They park and surfers get out, coffees in hand, wetsuits on the ready, and shoot the shit like they belong to some club I sure as fuck don’t want to be a part of.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Hawkin finally asks. He picks up the bottle cap from his beer and tosses it into the case beyond our feet.

  “Nah. Not really.”

  “Classic Jennings response. Good to see that hasn’t changed.”

  “You’re the one who kidnapped me and is refusing to take me back to my place.”

  “Kidnapped?” He shakes his head. “How about saved your ass when I shouldn’t have?”

  “Semantics.”

  “There are videos, Vin. From the bar. From your arrest. Leaving the station. That fancy new PR company you hired is going to need to do a lot of cleanup.”

  “Or not. I’m an asshole. Isn’t that common knowledge by now?”

  “I’m not taking the bait. Last time I did, I lost my best friend.” He pauses, his words hitting me as hard as that fucker did at the bar. “If you want to talk, then I’ll listen. If you want to tell me to shut the fuck up . . . then say it.”

  I blow out a sigh. “I don’t know what I want anymore.”

  “Fair enough.” He pops the top off a beer and hands it to me. “Hair of the dog and all that.”

  After a long, hard stare, I shake my head. “Nah. I’m pretty sure I consumed my fair share last night.”

  “Point taken.”

  Another car pulls into the lot a few spaces down. Their music is loud and their engine sounds like shit. I watch the guy driving lean over and kiss the girl in the passenger seat.

  My stomach twists.

  Last night—the part of it before the bar—replays in my head. Her tears. The break in her voice. The hurt in her eyes.

  You did that to her.

  Forgiving myself isn’t an option.

  “Talk to me about Bristol.”

  I whip my head in his direction, but he just stares at the ocean beyond like this is an everyday conversation we have.

  “What about her?”

  “You mentioned her when you called me last night.”

  “And what did I say?”

  He chuckles and it feels like sandpaper in my eardrums. “You tell me.”

  “Jesus, Hawke. Really?”

  He turns his head and studies me. “Why are you trying so hard to fuck shit up for yourself?”

  A smart-ass quip is on my tongue, but I let it die. It seems I’ve done enough damage to the people I love in my life. The problem is, I’m sitting at the bottom of a well and have no goddamn clue how to climb out of it. I don’t know how to do life solo. I don’t know how to go through life feeling so untethered. I’ve taken her with me everywhere for over a decade, but I’m not sure I can do that anymore.

  And Bristol’s words keep coming back to me.

  “I love you, Vince, but we can’t keep doing this. I deserve more than a piece of you every couple of years. No one’s to blame. Not you. Not me. It’s just the way we were probably meant to be. Your different is your beautiful too, Vince. It always has been. It always will be.”

  And then her mom’s, which is strange considering I haven’t thought about that conversation in years.