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"She's fine. I'm fine. We're all fine," I declare.

"You don't look fine." He says it the same easy way Phoebe did, like it's just a fact sitting out in the open, nothing personal about it. "You've been quiet for a while. Quiet's not really your speed."

I grunt, "Ranch keeps a man busy."

"Ranch always kept you busy. Didn't use to keep you quiet."

"I'm good," I insist.

He studies me another minute, then nods. "Okay." He leaves it there and doesn't push, because Alexander's never been the type to corner a man into a conversation he's not ready for, which is more than I can say for our other brothers.

They head back toward the house, his hand lifted in a wave. I stand there a minute longer than I need to, watching Phoebe loop her arm through his and lean her head against his shoulder like it's the easiest thing in the world.

I used to think that kind of easy was for other people. There wasn't a point in having that type of intimacy and closeness. But then I danced with a redhead in a black glitter dress for one night and found out it might just be what I want.

It is what I want.

Stop thinking this kind of shit!

I finish my work and decide it's best to not be at the ranch. I hop in my truck, still dirty, and head to town. The night's still early, but darkness is creeping in when I park.

I take the steps two at a time, unlock the apartment, step inside, and freeze.

Mason has his boots up on my coffee table like it's his place and not mine.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I question.

He picks at his nail, not looking at me, and states, "It's Friday. You're coming out tonight."

"I told you this morning I wasn't," I remind him.

He grabs his phone and scrolls. "Whatever. Get ready. Don't want to miss happy hour."

"Not really in the mood," I hurl.

"You haven't been in the mood for months. At some point, that stops being mourning and starts making you a pussy." He tosses a shirt at me off the back of my own chair. "Red Dirt. Troy's buying the first round. Says he's finally going to ask the new waitress on a date."

The mention of Red Dirt makes my stomach flip. I haven't been back since New Year's Eve. Every time I think about walking through that door, I picture Lainey standing at the bar in her black dress.

I'd rather stay home. I blurt out, "I've got an early morning."

"We always have early mornings. Stop walking around like a man who got dumped at the altar instead of one who spent one night with a woman he can't even call." Mason deadpans, which is worse than if he'd put some emotion into it.

"I'm not acting like that."

"You are, so stop being a pussy. Come on. One beer on Troy. If you hate it, I'll drive you home myself and never mention it again."

"Like I said, not interested."

"So you're going to sit in here and cry to yourself?" he taunts.

"No."

"Then get dressed, or I'm telling Troy to bring a case over." He gets up and heads toward the door. "You have twenty minutes to get there before I come back with him and whoever else is at the bar."

I debate and decide the bar is easier to escape than Troy. Plus, Mason has a point. Sitting in this apartment another night staring at a phone that isn't going to ring isn't doing me any favors. So I take a shower, toss on my clothes, and walk the short distance, gritting my teeth when I see the same neon glowing sign as always.

It's early, but the Red Dirt's gravel lot is packed with trucks. Inside, the band's working through something upbeat, and half the county's here doing exactly what they were doing three months ago. It's like time didn't move at all for anybody but me.