"Good lad." Jay's expression softens, his tone dipping. "You good, though? For real?"
I pause, the words sticking in my throat. Even if I'm not right now, I don't need him to know it.
"I will be." I say it with more confidence than I feel, but the truth lingers unspoken between us like smoke.
Jay watches me carefully before nodding. "All right. Well, just know I'm here. Anytime." He stands, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Should we, like, hug or some shit now?"
I snort, shoving his arm away. "Get the fuck out of here."
He chuckles, stepping back. "Gotta check on my mom anyway."
"How's she doing?"
Jay hesitates, his hand resting on the edge of the bar.
"Not getting better. But not getting worse. It's like she's got one foot in and one foot out. Some days she fights, other days…" He trails off, shaking his head. "Anyway, don't forget about Camilla."
"Got it."
When he's gone, I stare at my drink, the condensation dripping down the sides like slow-moving tears. Jay's right. I do have people who have had my back even when I didn't deserve it. But Nora—she's different. She's never stopped believing in me, even in moments when I couldn't believe in myself. Even when I gave her every reason to walk away, she stayed and fought for me.
Happiness isn't something I trust—not fully. Every time I let it in, it slips through my fingers, leaving behind nothing but regret. My phone feels heavy as I pull it from my pocket. My thumb hovers over her name before I shove it away again. The truth is, I don't want to be half in, half out with her anymore. I'm done waiting, done letting fear hold me back, done pretending she isn't everything I've ever wanted but never thought I deserved.
If she goes to London, I'll wait for her. She won't want me to, but secretly, I will. If she stays, I'll stay by her side. Either way, I'm hers—completely, irrevocably, with every broken piece of myself that she somehow makes feel whole.
I'm about to take a sip of my untouched drink, then decide against it. It's time to stop running from the best thing that's ever happened to me and start running toward it instead. It's time to tell Nora exactly what she means to me—that she's not just the reason I'm still breathing, but the reason I want to keep breathing.
That loving her isn't just a choice anymore—it's as natural as my heartbeat, as necessary as air.
The parking lot unfolds before me like a concrete wasteland, empty except for the electric hum of streetlights that paint everything in sickly yellow. My car sits in the shadows where the light doesn't reach, and that's when I see them. Monty and his crew, their Harleys gleaming dull under the fluorescents, passing a cigarette between them like some twisted communion.
Monty looks like hell—eyes bloodshot and hollow, face gaunt with days of sleeplessness, movements jerky like a puppet with cut strings. His entire being radiates the kind of dangerous desperation that makes my muscles tense for a fight. But I walk toward them anyway. There's no point in running. Nora's voice echoes in my head, pleading with me to be careful. The memory of her fingers brushing against my cheek this morning sends a knife through my chest. I should have told her then.
"Nice night isn't it, Preppy?" Monty's voice drips with mockery as he crushes his cigarette under his boot. "Noticed your daddy's been busy."
I stop just out of swinging distance, face blank. "You got your money, Monty. I'm out."
Monty steps closer, and I catch the faint stench of whiskey and desperation on him.
"You're out when I say you're out. See, now my fucking problem is your old man. He's been throwing around all these threats. Running his mouth, trying to drive out my business and take over this part of town." His voice slows to a taunting drawl. "But Scott Sullivan owes me some money too. And instead, he's spending it on cheap hookers. What's with you rich folk anyway? You have all the money in the fucking world and you settle for cheap trash?"
I don't flinch, don't let my surprise show.
Of course my father would choose the one dealer in the whole fucking state who I'm trying to get out of my life. The inevitability of it would be laughable if it wasn't so goddamn tragic.
"Not my problem," I say evenly.
Monty's laugh cuts through the night air like broken glass. "Not your problem? No kid, see if he screws up, you're going to pay the price. An eye for an eye."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "You think he cares what you do to me?"
His grin turns cold, predatory. "Oh, I know him well enough. Your old man has been sniffing around my turf, waving cops and lawsuits in my face. Thought he could scare me off." He steps closer, breath hot with bourbon. "But I don't scare easily."
"So what do you want me to do about it?"
The words hang in the air for a heartbeat before his fist slams into my stomach. Pain erupts like a bomb inside my ribs, and I stagger back, lungs desperate for air that won't come. Before I can straighten, a boot crashes into my side, sending me sprawling onto the gravel. I curl in on myself instinctively, arms shielding my face, but it doesn't stop them.
Fists and boots rain down—sharp, brutal, unrelenting. A kick catches my ribs, and I swear I feel something crack. The pain is blinding, but through it all, I see her face, like every other time I've danced along the edge of death.
