Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I watch Delaney and Jo rush out of the bar, and I know—no question—they're leaving because of me. My first instinct is to follow her, make sure she's okay. That's what I would've done when she was mine. Back then, I never talked to her the way I have tonight, never drove her out of a room in tears. On the rare occasion we fought, I'd show up with flowers and a tub of her favorite ice cream, and she'd forget why she was mad. Somehow, I don't think either would work now—not after the way I've been treating her.
It's taking everything in me not to go after her, but I'm not her boyfriend anymore. She's not my responsibility. She's got a perfectly pressed, rich husband for that now. Probably on the phone with him right this second, telling him what a dick I am. I wouldn't blame her. Still... it should be me she calls when she's hurt. I should be the one comforting her, not him. But I lost that right a long time ago, and it's no one's fault but mine.
God, why am I such a fucking asshole?
I drop onto a stool at the high-top in the back, where Wyatt and Mitchell are already parked. Tension knots my shoulders, that same heavy feeling I've had since my old man told me Delaney was back twisting in my gut. My beer's cold in my hand, condensation dripping onto the napkin. I lift it to my lips but don't drink. Don't even want it. Booze used to be my therapy when I got back from St. Louis, but it doesn't work like it used to.
Pool balls crack in the corner. A pack of drunk twenty-somethings cheer by the dartboard. My friends? Quiet. Too quiet. I don't need to look to know they're staring. When I do, I'm right.
"What?" I snap. I'm already disgusted with myself for how I treated Delaney—yesterday and tonight—so I'm not in the mood for an interrogation. "Something you wanna share with the group, or am I supposed to read your fucking minds?"
"No, it's just... you're such a dick," Mitchell says. "What'd she ever do to you besides worship the ground you walked on?"
I roll my eyes and take a pull from my beer. "We're not talking about this."
"He's right, bro. That was brutal," Wyatt says. "I remember when Delaney James was your whole damn world. Back in high school, you had girls lined up, but she was all you saw. You thought she hung the fucking moon and stars. Now she's finally back in South Grove, and you're treating her like shit. I don't get it."
Wyatt Simms— music teacher, pee-wee football coach, hopeless romantic in his own warped way.
"You ever gonna tell us what happened between you two?" Mitchell asks.
I fucked up royally—that's what happened. Not something they need to hear.
"Doesn't matter," I mutter. "And it's no one's business."
"If you'd asked me back then where you two'd be in ten years, I'd have said you'd be a World Series champ, married to Delaney, couple kids, a dog, big house with a white picket fence," Wyatt says, smirking as he taps his bottle to Mitchell's. "Some real Hallmark movie shit."
