Hoax in One

| 31 |

Seth hesitated with his hand on the door handle.

"I don't know what we're going to walk into, Devin. He sounded blitzed out of his mind. I think he only answered my phone call because he was that drunk."

"I don't care," I insisted. I'd seen Tate drunk plenty of times. Once or twice even black out drunk. Nothing I could see would scare me away.

Seth looked unconvinced. "I'm just not sure you should come in with me."

He had already tried to convince me to stay at the hotel, but that wasn't happening. He'd pleaded with me to let him go alone when I pounded on his door after he texted me.

I gave him a death stare. If he thought I wasn't going in there, he was crazy.

Seth sighed. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep me out. He looked up at the maroon bar sign hanging above our heads like he was saying a silent prayer before he opened the door. "Whatever happens, I don't think you should take whatever comes out of his mouth... to heart. I'm scared he's going to say things to push you away."

"I can handle it."

Seth nodded, even though he looked stressed.

Even Hilton Head's dive bars were beautiful. This one had muted paintings on the walls and a rectangular shaped bar in the middle of the otherwise simple and dark room. A few people were playing pool in the corner, but it wasn't overly crowded. This wasn't where many vacationers would go. Most likely, it was a local's bar.

Tate was sitting on a corner barstool with a beer bottle and two empty shot glasses in front of him. His hand was wrapped around a full whiskey shot that he was staring into.

He looked up at us solemnly and laughed under his breath before he threw his head back and poured the shot down his throat.

"Why the fuck would you bring her here?" he asked Seth when we approached.

Tate wasn't being a mean or angry drunk. His words held amusement—dark amusement—like he was speaking with a sick twisted sense of humor.

Seth scoffed. "She wasn't going to stay away."

I crossed my arms. "I'm not going anywhere."

Tate picked up his beer and took a long sip. Then he tipped the top of his bottle toward me and punctured me with his gaze. "You know you shouldn't love me. I told you so many goddamn times."

"Tate," Seth started nervously, trying to get him to shut up.

Tate raised his eyebrows, ignoring Seth. "I'm going to break your fucking heart. There's nothing I can do about it."

"You're not," I tried to say. Maybe it came out. I was quietly crying, trying not to make a scene, so who knows what it sounded like.

Tate laughed again. A dark sounding laugh from the back of his throat. "I will. And then I'll have to hear you cry like that every night." He looked between the both of us seriously. "Do you know what that fucking does to a person mentally? Listening to someone sob night after night—from a situation they knowingly put themselves in. No wonder I need therapy."

"Help us understand then," I pleaded and wiped the tears from my eyes. I wasn't going to cry anymore.

"Why? So I can drag you down with me? I'll drive you to depression." Tate stared at my face like he was being tortured.

I looked away. I didn't want to be the source of his pain.

Seth ran his hand over his face. "Tate, let's get you back to the room."

Tate ignored him. "That smile of yours will disappear. And it will be all my fault. Fuck." He laughed. "I'm just like Elliot. That motherfucker and his smug shit. We're the damn same. I don't share. I wouldn't be able to let you go either."