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By the time G orders our third round—and decides we need another tequila shot—I’ve remembered two things.

One, I’m definitely not twenty-one anymore.

And two, tequila still tastes like regret.

“This was a terrible idea,” I tell her, staring down at the shot sitting beside my whiskey sour. Whose bright idea was it to mix drinks?

Mine. It was mine.

G clinks her glass against mine. “You say that like you’re not having fun.”

“I’m having fun against my will.” I knock back the shot, my face twisting into something I’m sure is extremely unattractive.

“Still counts,” she says, looking far too pleased with herself.

I laugh because, annoyingly, she’s right.

The Breakwater is busy tonight. Not packed, but loud enough that the music blends with dozens of conversations and the occasional burst of laughter from the other end of the bar. Bill gave me shit the second I walked in for sitting on the customer side instead of working, then immediately poured our first round.

I haven’t checked the time in over an hour.

I also haven’t checked the door once.

If I think about that too hard, it might be the biggest thing of all.

G nudges my knee beneath the table. “You okay?”

I look over at her. This isn’t the drunk you okay? people ask when you’ve been quiet for thirty seconds.

It’s the real one.

I used to hate concern because it always felt too much like pity. Teachers watching while I counted loose change for lunch. Adults giving me sad eyes because everyone knew what my parents were like. They saw the things that happened to me before they ever saw me.

But G isn’t looking at me like I’m broken.

She’s looking at me like she loves me.

Fuck, I love her too.

“Yeah.” I give her a small smile.

She studies me for another second. “Not Blair-okay. Actually okay?”

“Actually okay,” I promise. “That’s the weird part. I think I might be the happiest I’ve ever been.”

G’s expression softens.

“You know, aside from Ben being out of prison and possibly looking for me,” I add with a dry laugh. “But let’s not unpack that while tequila is involved.”

I told G the truth not long after I opened up to Dean. Not every detail, but enough that I no longer have to pretend around her.

Her shoulders relax. “Good. Then toast with me.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“To poor decisions.” She lifts her empty shot glass, a wicked gleam in her eye.

I snort and clink mine against it. “I think we already made those.”