Teardrop Shot(4)

He hadn’t pushed me to talk about him or why I faded from everyone. While I knew I was being a coward, I’d been grateful.

It was time. Long past time, because I was glad that I answered his call and I was glad he’d gone dancing with me tonight. But I was really glad that I just saw him again.

I’d forgotten how much I missed everyone.

I looked down at the table, the words burning in my throat, but I had to say them. Or say something, at least. I wasn’t a total jerk.

“I know I went MIA—”

“Hey.” His voice was gentle, and he laid a hand on mine. “I know enough to realize you were going through something bad. You don’t have to apologize to me or explain anything.”

That made the burning worse.

“Trent…”

I tried again. I had to. He was a good friend to try after eight years of me ghosting, and since he’d showed up, it’d been drama overload. I never used to be a shitty friend.

I didn’t think so, anyway. But that might’ve been something else I was deluded about.

“You gotta know it wasn’t just the camp group,” I said. “It was everyone. I ghosted on everyone in my life. My family too.”

“I know.”

The music blared as someone opened the door. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

He waited until the door closed again, until it was just Boom, boom, boom, and then he leaned forward, his forehead almost touching mine across the table.

“I knew you were going through it. We all did, and some of that’s on us too. You know, when you and…”

Damian.

It was time his name was said.

He hesitated to say his name. Hell, even I did at this point.

He cocked his head to the side. “When you began dating Damian, I’ll admit that some of us didn’t handle it the right way. I know I got pissed—not because you were with someone, but because I couldn’t call you at three in the morning to talk about whatever girl I had in my bathroom and figure out how to get her out of my apartment. At some point, you were no longer our Charlie, but his Charlie.”

I picked at the table. Some dickhead had scratched penis into the wood, and damned if I wasn’t going to turn that i into an upside-down actual penis. Just needed to add some girth and another ball. Or I was stalling. Again.

I glanced up, meeting Trent’s knowing gaze. Why’d he always look at me that way? Like he was an all-knowing wise owl.

I raised a shoulder, feeling guilt bloom in my chest. “You should’ve been able to do that, except Damian should’ve joined the conversation.”

God.

One year ago. That’s how long ago I’d left that relationship, and I’d been such a mess that it took eleven months to realize I needed something drastic to get me back in the land of the living—and social media.

Hence my Lucas mistake. We met at my gym, gushed over Reese Forster, and I’d given a reckless yes to his suggestion we grab a beer, which had ended with Newt. Good old Newt.

I sighed. I was starting to miss the old grandpa.

But not his thieving ways.

Trent nodded. “Yeah. Maybe. Maybe I can’t talk, but I know all our other friends, and I never had the relationship with any of them where I could call at three in the morning to plot Operation Remove Forgotten-Name-Nice-Lady.” He bumped my arm with his fist and ducked his head to meet my gaze. “I’m kinda scared this is an aberration, so I mean it. You should come with me to camp. Keith—”

Boo. Hiss. Thunderbolts.

I hated Keith.

Keith, the boss.

“—said that whoever booked the island, they have it for almost three weeks. He asked me to come back a couple times for their stay. He’s only using old staff. He wants the ones he can trust, so whoever it is, they’re a big deal. You should come.”

“And work there? Be your assistant? Get you coffee? A fan on command?”

He rolled his eyes. “No. I mean, didn’t you say you were trying to write a book?”

Oh, fuck. Either my social skills were seriously lacking or my tolerance to tequila was in the trenches.

“I said that?” I felt my face getting hot. What else had I said?

Trying to write a book hadn’t been my idea. It’d been my therapist’s, and yes, after eleven months, Lucas and the therapist had both been my attempts at getting a life again. And that was an exaggeration about writing a book. She might’ve said journal, but here’s me. I either overly commit or I don’t commit at all, and I walked out of that session hearing I needed to write a book.

Yeah. I’d written nothing.

“What?” Trent asked.

“Huh?”

He shook his head. “You zoned out on me.”

“I told you I was going to write a book?”

He nodded. “Were you not supposed to?”

“No, but it’s embarrassing.”

“Why’s that embarrassing? I think it’s a good idea. You can write about your life, about what you went through with Damian. It’s like an intensive therapeutic technique.”

Holy shit. He’d been talking to my therapist. Or Newt.

“My life sucks. It’d be the most depressing book ever.”

He laughed. “You’d be surprised. But hey, getting back to my question—are you still working at that data place?”