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I fall silent because what can I say? He’s right. Some wounds don’t close; they fester, hidden beneath the surface until days like today rip them open anew.
“Guys,” Sawyer interrupts, his voice a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters. “Let’s just… let’s just be here for each other, okay? No pressure, no plans. Just us.”
I nod, though uncertainty gnaws at my gut. I fucking hate seeing Mickey like this, so lost to the ghosts of January first, drowning in what-ifs and never-weres. Every year I have to remind myself that tracking down Simone and kicking her lying ass isn’t a viable option, but fuck I want to.
“Fine,” I relent, sinking back into my seat. But as the minutes tick by, the silence stretching thin between us, a single question burns in the back of my mind.
Mickey remains slumped on the couch, clutching the glass of amber liquid in his hand like it’s the last life vest on a sinking ship. He stares into nothingness, lips moving in a silent soliloquy only he understands. The scent of whiskey mingles with the despair hanging heavy in the air, and I can almost taste the bitterness on my tongue.
“Hey, Mick,” Sawyer says, nudging him gently with a knee. “Big game against the Rangers coming up. We need you sharp, not pickled.”
But Mickey just waves him off, eyes never leaving the swirling storm in his glass. He’s somewhere far away, maybe in a parallel universe where this day means something else.
I bite my lip, watching this yearly ritual unspool, knowing there’s no playbook for heartache. My gaze flickers to the clock. It’s mocking us, each tick echoing through the room like a drumbeat counting down to another year of Mickey’s misery.
“Hey Sawyer, did I tell you about Abby?” I blurt out. I know fucking well I haven’t mentioned her since it only happened last night. But I’m desperate to shatter the silence that feels so potent it’s threatening to open my own wounds.
Sawyer arches an eyebrow, leaning forward with interest. “Abby?”
“The new woman from Cupid’s Court,” I clarify, the memory sending a shiver down my spine. Her name tastes like a secret, forbidden and alluring.
“No, you didn’t. Do tell.” Sawyer’s voice is low, intrigued.
Sawyer’s never been with us to that place, always claimed he didn’t want to go. And now that he’s married, it’s definitely not happening. Despite always inviting him to join us, I’m kinda glad he never did. Mickey and I have shared our women for so long it’s normal for us. But Sawyer isn’t into that.
I run a hand through my short, dark hair, trying to shake the image of her from my mind. “She had this mask on, so she couldn’t see. And it was big enough it hid everything but her mouth.”
“Sounds like your kind of mystery woman,” Sawyer chuckles, but his eyes are sharp, dissecting my words, searching for the truth beneath them.
I shrug, feeling a flush creep up my neck. “Kinda.”
“So she made quite the impression, huh?” Sawyer muses. “Enough to go back for seconds?” His tone is teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of something else—curiosity, maybe, or anticipation.
The ice clinks against the glass as Mickey tilts it back, draining the last of his whiskey in a single gulp. The liquid fire seems to burn away some of his gloom, replacing it with a spark of mischief. He leans forward, and levels a gaze at Sawyer that’s both sly and a little blurred around the edges.
“Guess what our boy did last night?” he slurs, a crooked grin spreading across his face. The room is thick with tension, heavy like the air before a storm.
“Enlighten me,” Sawyer says, eyes flickering between us, sensing the weight of what’s coming.
“Soren here… he fucked Abby,” Mickey announces, his voice carrying a note of disbelief.
Sawyer’s eyebrows shoot up, surprise etching itself into his features. We’ve never kept secrets about our escapades, but this—this is something else, and I’m irrationally annoyed with Mickey for not keeping that part to himself.
“Come on, you’re shitting me,” Sawyer finally says, turning to me for confirmation or denial.
“Wasn’t the plan,” I admit, shrugging as if it doesn’t matter, as if the memory of Abby’s skin against mine isn’t seared into my brain. “At least not the first time.”
“I’ll be damned,” Sawyer chuckles. “And you didn’t even see her face.”
“Didn’t need to.” The words come out gruffer than I intend, defensive. It’s not like me to be drawn in like this, to someone whose eyes I’ve never seen, whose full lips I’ve only tasted in the dark.
“Pfft, you were even focusing more on her pleasure than pain. That’s a first,” Mickey teases. His silver eyes narrow, watching me closely, trying to decipher the enigma of my sudden change.
“Fuck off, Mick,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair in frustration. I can still feel the ghost of her curves pressed against me, the way she moved, the soft and wanton moans that escaped her lips. And her cries of pain when I caused it.
Sawyer leans back, studying me with a contemplative look. “We all have our moments, man. She must’ve been something else,” he says.
“She was… is.” Words fail me, because how the hell can I explain what I don’t even understand myself?
