Finally he laughed, shaking his head. “Mate, you have no idea. Let’s collect Ben and go grab a pint.”
* * *
We got to the bar before Bennett did, but not by much. Just as we sat at a table in the back, near the dartboards and the broken karaoke machine, Bennett strode in still wearing his crisp dark suit and a look of such utter exhaustion I wondered how long the three of us would manage to remain conscious.
“You sure are making me drink a lot on weeknights lately, Will,” Bennett mumbled, taking a seat.
“So order a soda,” I said.
We both looked at Max, expecting his usual semi-serious and barely intelligible rant about the blasphemy of ordering a Diet Coke in a British pub, but he just remained uncharacteristically quiet, staring at the menu and then ordering what he always ordered: a pint of Guinness, a cheeseburger, and chips.
Maddie took the rest of our orders and disappeared. We were back on yet another Tuesday night and, just as before, the bar was almost empty. A strange quietness seemed to ring our table. It was as if none of us could get it up tonight to bother shit-talking.
“Really, though. What’s up with you?” I asked Max again.
He smiled at me—a genuine Max smile—but then shook his head. “Ask me again after I’ve had two pints.” Grinning up at Maddie as she put our drinks on the table, he gave her a little wink. “Thanks, love.”
“The text from Max said we are convening at Maddie’s for a girls’ night out,” Bennett said, and then took a sip of his beer. “So which of Will’s women are we discussing tonight?”
“There’s only the one woman, now,” I murmured. “And Hanna ended it earlier tonight, so I guess technically there are no women.” Both men looked up at me, eyes concerned. “She said, essentially she didn’t want this.”
“Fuck,” Max murmured, rubbing his face in his hands.
“The thing is,” I said, “I think she’s full of shit.”
“Will . . .” Bennett cautioned.
“No,” I said, waving him off, and feeling a surge of relief, of realization as I thought more about it. Yes, she’d been pissed tonight at her place—and I still had no idea why—but I remembered how it felt making love on the floor this weekend, in the middle of the night, and the hunger in her eyes like she didn’t just want me, she was starting to need me.
“I know she feels this, too. Something happened between us this weekend,” I told them. “The sex has always been fucking amazing, but it was so intense at her parents’ place.”
Bennett coughed. “Sorry. You had sex at her parents’ place?”
I chose to believe his ambiguous tone meant impressed, so I continued: “It was like she was finally going to admit there was more between us than just sex and friendship.” I lifted my water glass to my lips, took a sip. “But the next morning, she snapped closed. She’s talking herself out of it.”
Both men hummed thoughtfully, considering this. Finally, Bennett asked, “Did you two ever decide to be exclusive? I’m sorry if I’m not following the map of this relationship very clearly. You leave a very treacherous path of women behind you.”
“She knew that I wanted to be exclusive, but then I agreed to keep it open—because that’s what she wanted. For me, she’s it,” I said, not caring whether they gave me a mountain of shit for being so whipped. I deserved it, and the funniest part was I relished being claimed. “You guys called it, and I have no problem admitting you’re right. She’s funny, and beautiful. She’s sexy and she’s fucking brilliant. I mean, she is completely it for me. I have to think today was just a bump in the road or else I will probably go on punching walls repeatedly until my hand is broken.”
Bennett laughed, lifting his glass to clink it against mine. “Then here’s to hoping she comes around.”
Max lifted his glass, too, knowing there wasn’t really anything he could say. He winced a little, apologetically, as if this was all somehow his fault simply because he’d wished lovesick misery on me only a couple months back.
After my little speech, the silence returned, and the weird mood with it. I struggled to not be pulled under. Of course I was worried I wouldn’t be able to win Hanna back. From the first moment she slid her fingers beneath my shirt in the bedroom at the party, I’d been ruined for anyone else.
Hell, even before then. I think I’d been lost in her the second I pulled the wool cap over her adorably rumpled bed head on our first run.
But despite my certainty that she had lied about her feelings, and that she did feel something for me, doubt crept back in. Why had she lied? What happened between our obvious lovemaking and when we got into the car the next morning?
Bennett interrupted my downward spiral with his own misery: “Well, since we’re letting out all of our feelings, I guess it’s my turn to share. The wedding is driving us both mad. Everyone in our family is traveling to San Diego for the ceremony—I mean everyone—step-great-aunts and second-cousins-twice-removed and people I haven’t seen since I was five. The same thing on Chlo’s side.”
“That’s great,” I said, and then reconsidered when Bennett slid his cool gaze to me. “Isn’t it good when people accept your invitation?”
“I suppose it is, but many of these people weren’t invited. Her family is mostly in North Dakota, and mine is all over Canada, and Michigan, and Illinois. They’re all looking for a reason to have a vacation on the coast.” Shaking his head, he continued: “So last night Chloe decided she wanted to elope. To cancel all of it, and she’s so hell-bent on it that I’m afraid she is going to call the hotel and cancel and we’ll be thoroughly fucked then.”
“She wouldn’t do that, mate,” Max murmured, roused from his uncharacteristically quiet mood. “Would she?”
Bennett’s hands slid into his hair and curled into fists, his elbows planted on the table. “Honestly, I don’t know. This thing is getting huge, and even I feel like it’s spiraling out of control. Everyone in our family is inviting whoever they want—as if it’s just a big free party and why not? It’s not even about cost at this point, it’s about space, about having what we wanted. We were imagining a wedding of about a hundred and fifty. Now it’s close to three hundred.” He sighed. “It’s just one day. It’s a day. Chloe is trying to stay sane but it’s hard on her because there’s only so much I . . .” He laughed, shaking his head, and then sat up to look at us. “There are only so many details I give a shit about. For once in my life, I don’t need to control everything. I don’t care what our colors are, or what wedding favors we choose. I don’t care about the flowers. Everything that comes after is what I care about. I care that I get to fuck her for a week in Fiji and then we’ll be married forever. That’s what matters. Maybe I should just let her cancel it all and marry her this weekend so we can get to the fucking.”
I opened my mouth to protest, to tell Bennett that I was sure every couple went through this kind of crisis, but the truth was, I had no idea. Even at Jensen’s wedding—where I’d been the best man—the only thing keeping me going during the ceremony was the thought of taking the two bridesmaids to the coat closet to bang. I hadn’t paid particularly close attention to the more sentimental emotions of the day.
So, I closed my mouth, rubbing a palm across it and feeling a dose of self-loathing sweep over me. Fuck. I already missed Hanna, and being with my two closest friends who were so . . . situated made it hard. It wasn’t that I felt I needed to catch up to some milestone of theirs; I simply wanted that comfort of knowing I could go out with my friends for an evening and still come home to her. I missed the comfort of her company, the way she listened so carefully, the way I knew she said whatever came to mind when she was around me, a thing I noticed she didn’t do with anyone else. I loved her for being so wildly her own self—so fierce and confident and curious and smart. And I missed feeling her body, taking pleasure from her, and, fuck, giving her pleasure unending.
I wanted to lie in bed with her at night, and bemoan the ordeal of planning a wedding.
I wanted it all.
“Don’t elope,” I said, finally. “I realize that I know shit about any of this, and I’m sure my opinion means nothing, but I’m pretty sure every wedding feels like a complete clusterfuck at one point or another.”
“It just feels like so much work for a single day,” Bennett mumbled. “Life goes on so much longer beyond this one slip of time.”
Max chuckled, lifting his glass, and then reconsidered, putting it back down on the table, before he started laughing again, and harder. We both turned to look at him.
“You were acting like zombie Max,” I noted, “but now you’re creepy clown Max. We’re all sharing here—I’ve had my heart stomped on by Hanna, Bennett is wrestling with the age-old crisis of wedding planning madness. Your turn.”
He shook his head, smiling down at his empty pint. “Fine.” He waved to Maddie for another Guinness. “But Ben, you’re here tonight only as my mate. Not as Sara’s boss. Understood?”
Bennett nodded, brows pulled together. “Of course.”
Offering a one-shouldered shrug, Max murmured, “Well, lads, it turns out I’m going to be a dad.”
The relative quiet we had been enjoying seemed like roaring chaos in comparison to the vacuum that now existed. Bennett and I froze, and then exchanged a brief look.
“Max?” Bennett asked, with an uncharacteristic delicacy. “Sara’s pregnant?”
“Yeah, mate.” Max looked up, cheeks pink and eyes wide. “She’s having my baby.”
Bennett continued to watch him, probably assessing every reaction on Max’s face.
“This is good,” I said carefully. “Right? This is a good thing?”
Max nodded, blinking over to me. “It’s bloody amazing. I just . . . I’m terrified, to be honest.”
“How far along is she?” Bennett asked.
“A little over three months.” We both started to respond in surprise but he held up his hand, nodding. “She’s been stressed, and she thought . . .” Shaking his head, he continued: “She took a test this weekend, but didn’t know until today how far she was. But today, when I was out at meetings . . . we had an ultrasound to measure the baby.” He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Bloody hell, the baby. I just found out Sare’s pregnant, and today I could see there’s a fucking kid in there. Sara’s far enough along that the ultrasound technician guessed it’s a girl but we won’t know for sure for a couple months. It’s just . . . unreal.”
“Max, why the fuck are you out with us?” I asked, laughing. “Shouldn’t you be at home drinking sparkling cider and picking out names?”
He smiled. “She wanted some time away from me, I think. I’ve been fucking unbearable the last few days, wanting to remodel the bloody apartment and talk about when we’re getting married and all that shite. I think she wanted to tell Chloe. Besides, we’ve got a date planned for tomorrow.” He stilled, his brows pulling together in concern when he said that. “But now that this day is over, I’m just beat.”
“You’re not worried about this, are you?” Bennett asked, studying Max. “I mean, this is unbelievable. You and Sara are going to have a baby.”
“No, it’s just the same worries I’m sure everyone feels I imagine,” Max said, wiping a hand across his mouth. “Will I be a good dad? Sara’s not much of a drinker, but did we do anything in the past three months that could hurt the baby? And, with my giant spawn growing in there, will little Sara be okay?”
I could barely hold back. I stood, pulling Max out of his chair and into a hug.
He was so in love with Sara he could barely think straight when she was around. And although most of the time I gave him endless shit about it, it was a pretty amazing thing to behold. I knew without him ever having to say it that he was ready for this, ready to settle down and be the devoted husband and dad. “You’ll be amazing, Max. Seriously, congratulations.”
Stepping back, I watched as Bennett stood, shaking Max’s hand and then pulling him into a brief hug.
Holy shit.
The enormity of this started to sink in and I all but collapsed back into my chair. This, here, was life. This was life beginning for us: weddings and families and deciding to step up and be a man for someone. It wasn’t about the fucking jobs we had or the random thrills we sought or any of that. Life was built from the bricks of these connections and milestones and moments where you tell your two best friends that you’re about to have a child.
I pulled out my phone, sending Hanna a single note.
You’re all I can think about anymore.
Chapter Nineteen
When I was little, I’d drive my entire family insane by not sleeping for days before any holiday or big event. Nobody understood why. My exhausted mother would sit up with me night after night, begging me to just go to bed.
“Ziggy,” she would say. “Honey, if you go to bed, Christmas will get here sooner. Time goes faster when you’re asleep.”
But it never seemed to work that way for me. “I can’t sleep,” I’d insist. “There’s too much in my head. My thoughts won’t slow down.”
I’d spend the countdown to birthdays and vacations wide awake and anxious, pacing the halls of our big house while I should have been asleep upstairs. It was a habit I’d never outgrown.
Saturday wasn’t Christmas or the first day of summer vacation, but I was counting every day, every minute as if it were. Because as pathetic as it sounded, and as much as I hated that I was looking forward to it, I knew I’d see Will. That thought alone was enough to find me up every night, wide awake at the window, recounting the streetlights to his building.
I’d always heard the first week after a breakup was the hardest. I hoped that was true. Because getting Will’s message on Tuesday night—You’re all I can think about anymore—was torture.
Could he have texted the wrong number by mistake? Or did he say that because he ended up alone, or because he was with another woman, but thinking of me? I couldn’t exactly be angry, and my initial self-righteousness over the prospect of him texting me while he was with Kitty faded quickly; I, too, had texted him when I was on my dates with Dylan.
The worst part was that I had no one to talk to about it, really. Well, I did, but I only wanted Will.
The sun had dipped low in the sky on Friday night as I walked the last few blocks to meet Chloe and Sara for drinks.
I’d tried to put on a brave front all week but I was miserable, and it was starting to show. I looked tired. I looked sad. I looked exactly how I felt. I missed him so much that I felt it with every breath, felt each second pass since I’d last seen him.
The Bathtub Gin was a small speakeasy in Chelsea. Visitors were greeted with an everyday storefront, the words STONE STREET COFFEE stenciled across the top. If you weren’t sure what you were looking for, or happened to pass by during the week when there wasn’t a crowd of people lined up outside, you might miss it. But if you knew it was there, illuminated by a single, glowing red bulb, you’d find the right door. One that opened up to a Prohibition-era club, complete with dim lighting, a steady hum of jazz, and even a large copper bathtub at the center.
I found Chloe and Sara sitting at the bar, drinks already in front of them and a gorgeous dark-haired man at their side.
“Hey, guys,” I said, sliding onto the stool next to them. “Sorry I’m late.”
The three of them turned, looked me up and down before the man said, “Oh honey, tell me all about the man who did this to you.”
I blinked between them, confused. “I . . . hi, I’m Hanna?”
“Ignore him,” Chloe said, sliding the menu across the bar to me. “We all do. And order a drink before you talk. You look like you could use it.”
The mystery man looked appropriately offended and the three of them argued among themselves while I scanned the various cocktails and wines, picking the first thing that seemed to fit my mood.
“I’ll have a Tomahawk,” I told the bartender, noticing in my peripheral vision the way Sara and Chl
oe looked to each other in surprise.
“So it’s like that, I see.” Chloe motioned for another drink and then took my hand, leading us all to a table.
In all reality, I’d probably just hold my cocktail for most of the night and absorb the comfort afforded by the option to get completely hammered. But I knew I wanted to race tomorrow, and no way was I going to run hungover.
“By the way, Hanna,” Chloe said, gesturing to the man currently watching me with curious, amused eyes. “This is George Mercer, Sara’s assistant. George, this is the adorable and soon-to-be-drunk and/or facedown-on-the-table Hanna Bergstrom.”
“Ah, a lightweight,” George said, and nodded to Chloe. “What in the world are you doing with this old boozehound? She should come with a warning label for girls like you.”
“George, how would you like my heel up your ass?” Chloe asked.
George barely blinked. “The whole heel?”
“Gross,” Chloe groaned.
Laughing, George drawled, “Liar.”
Sara leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Ignore them. It’s like watching Bennett and Chloe, but though they’d both rather screw Bennett than each other.”
“I see,” I murmured. A waitress placed our drinks on the table and I took a tentative pull from my straw. “Holy crap,” I coughed, my throat on fire.
I downed almost an entire glass of water while Sara watched me, appraising. “So what’s happening?” she asked.
“This drink is so spicy.”
“Not what she meant,” Chloe said bluntly.
I looked down at my glass, tried to focus on the tiny specks of paprika floating along the surface and not the hollow feeling in my gut. “Have you guys talked to Will lately?”
They each shook their head but George perked up.
“Will Sumner?” he clarified. “You’re banging Sumner? Jesus hell.” He motioned to the waitress again. “We’re gonna need another glass, lovely. Just bring the whole bottle.”
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