Page 143 of Everything But Mine

I lean back just enough to see her face, our foreheads nearly bumping. The lights sweep gold and violet over her skin, catching in her lashes. “Why would you think I don’t mean those?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She presses her lips together. “Because it’s a song, and you talk so much you can’t possibly mean everything you say and I don’t know—” She huffs out a breath. “Actually, yes, I do. And you know exactly why.”

My grip on her hip tightens before I can stop it. The sway stutters. “Not that again,” I mutter, sagging forward until my forehead almost rests on her shoulder. For a second I just breathe her in—rose perfume and champagne. “Can’t we let that go? We dissected it to death. Your way. Charts, theories, and all that therapist shit about my emotional wound.” The bass thrums through the floor, syncing with my pulse. “It all comes down to me having a big fucking mouth,” I say. “Can’t we just… loosen up? See where the night takes us?”

Her hand slides from my neck to my shoulder, not pushing me away, or pulling me closer either. The movement is loaded with her intention to hold me in place with clinical precision. Literally and metaphorically.

“I’m here to support them,” she says quietly.

I follow her gaze. Across the floor, Eric’s big head is impossible to miss, dragging Amanda through the crowd with purpose. They’re both childhood friends of mine. We’re all part of this big group since all our parents were friends. Eric’s my best friend and he looks like he’s about to lose with how deep his furrow’s gotten, and Amanda looks… confused. I feel a tug of responsibility towards them, inching almost to get to them. No, I tell myself. Their only way forward is through.

“They’re fine,” I say. “Eric’s a big boy. We gotta let him do his thing.”

Around us, couples rotate slowly and lazyly. Someone cheers near the bar. Glasses clink. The song builds toward the last chorus.

She studies me like she’s solving an equation. “Careful, Diego,” she says. Her thumb traces once, absentminded, along the collar of my shirt. “You’re coming off a bit cold.”

The final chord rings out. Guitar fading. Drums dying. Just feedback and air before the next song, not a slow one, bleeds into the room.

God. Fucking. Damn it.