“For what!” His face was ravaged. But asking her to pick him was also asking her to walk away with nothing. After all those promises she’d made to Faith, he was asking her to go back there, to a world that was constantly shifting beneath their feet.
“I can’t,” Rachel whispered. “I can’t choose you. Not right now.”
Nathan reared back. “You’re better than this,” he said, though his anger was crumbling. His eyes were glazed and red. “Better than all of them. And you deserve more than just what they’re willing to give you.” He looked away. “And so do I.”
Nathan opened the door and gestured for her to leave. She was tempted to stay and argue, to try and convince him he was wrong, that even a flawed piece of what they had was worth saving.
But no one got to keep stolen moments. They were always going to end this way.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Dillon: Just ate a cheese ball and watched three seasons of The Golden Girls. Am I Rose?
Dillon: Bobbi is definitely Sofia.
Dillon: Wanna draw me a tattoo?
Bobbi: NATHAN. Where the fuck are you?
Bobbi and Nathan had a rule about never letting Dillon choose a bar without vetting it first. But when Dillon resorted to calling instead of texting, Nathan agreed to meet him and Bobbi for drinks at a dive bar they hadn’t gone to in years. Nathan had also taken an edible Dillon left at his apartment, and after getting impatient when he didn’t feel anything after thirty minutes, he also took some Molly. They’d both kicked in while he packed the final pieces for the showcase. The gala was tomorrow, and Nathan handed everything to the delivery guy with his heart thundering and his thoughts blunted into uselessness. It took him three tries to request a Lyft, because he kept tapping Postmates instead.
He sobered up when he walked into Mirrors, assaulted by the smell of stale cigarettes and urine. It was Thursday night, and the place was nearly empty. An ancient TV mounted to the wall was playing HGTV with the captions on. The faint strains of a Richard Marx ballad trickled through the speakers of an old jukebox.
Dillon spread his arms like a game show host. “Blast from the past, right?”
Bobbi immediately declared the place a “filthy shithole,” with enough volume and conviction to earn dirty looks from a group of men clustered around a table. She gave them a “Sorry” that implied it was their fault for lacking standards.
“There’s our booth.” Dillon rushed to claim a red plastic booth in a shadowy corner. Bobbi grabbed Nathan’s arm to stop him from following.
“Say something,” she demanded.
Nathan’s tongue felt thick and unqualified to comply. “Huh?”
“Okay, so you’re not mute.” She glanced at Dillon, who had started taking selfies beside an old Britney Spears poster. “You know, I’m used to you avoiding me, but ignoring Dillon is like ghosting a kitten. He’ll never say it, but you hurt his feelings.”
Nathan had been ignoring them for two weeks. He could tell by the tremble in her voice that Bobbi was hurt too.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I was…” He waved his hand, unable express the depressed, hyperproductive fugue state he’d entered to finish his art in words. “Working.” He shrugged. “But I’m here now. Let’s have some fun.” The E was helping. He could hear the dreamy distance of his voice, and it was like welcoming back an old friend.
“What about you and…” She trailed off. Nathan fidgeted, ready to end the conversation. If she noticed, she didn’t care. “What going on with you and Rachel?”
“I said it’s done.” Nathan moved past her to join Dillon, who had already ordered a pitcher. Bobbi could read the slightest shift in his expression like tarot cards, and he wasn’t ready to discuss Rachel with her yet. Maybe he never would be. He was embarrassed by the way he’d lost her—by what she’d chosen over him. His friends didn’t have to know how naive he’d been about their relationship. Joe’s guilt trip had been bad enough.
Dillon poured a frosty mug and slid it toward Nathan. Bobbi sat in the booth on his right. “You should have let me order,” she griped.
“You always take forever,” Dillon said. “And these people don’t know what grain of hops each brand uses or whatever.”
“Grain of hops? I’m a chef, not a brewmaster. I just wanted to see what they had on tap.”
“Spoiler, it’s beer.” Dillon pointed to the pitcher.