Page 25 of Taming Georgia

“Try laying off the booze,” he says in a tight voice.

I push against him in order to steady myself on my heels. “It was my shoe,” I snap back at him.

“And you’re welcome,” Wyatt says before turning to walk off.

I kick off my shoes and chase after him.

I grab his arm, and he stops. “What are you doing here?”

“Last time I checked, I don’t need to tell you anything.” He glares down to me.

“I’m not drunk. I lost my balance because of my heels.” I don’t know why I feel the need to explain myself to him, but the explanation comes out anyway.

“I don’t fucking care what you do, Peaches.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“No? You seemed to love it when I called you that before.”

I scowl. “You don’t know anything.”

I’m not sure what that response means, but it’s what comes out. The truth is, I did love when he called me that. Hearing it now makes me think back to that time in my life when I was alive with hope for a new love. There was a brief moment when I thought that true love was possible, but Wyatt was there to show me that it wasn’t.

I’ve met a lot of jerks in my life, but Wyatt’s the only one who holds permanent residence in my thoughts. He cut me so much deeper than the rest that it’s never fully healed.

“I know enough. Now, are we done here?” He looks down to my hand that’s still holding on to his arm.

He’s right in that I am a little tipsy. Alcohol for me is like a truth serum. It makes me want to scream everything I’m feeling at him.

Why didn’t you love me?

Why did you kiss me?

Why did you hurt me?

Why do you hate me?

Why did you make me hate you?

Yet I’m not so tipsy that I don’t have self-control, so I don’t say anything else. Instead, I loosen my grasp and let go of his arm. He rolls his eyes and disappears into the crowd on the dance floor.

I’m also sober enough to realize that I’m pining over a relationship that I lost when I was seventeen. Nothing’s real at that age. Of course he was never meant to be the love of my life. I was a junior in high school. I couldn’t be trusted to vote, let alone make sound decisions about love.

I never loved him, and he never loved me. The kiss was just a kiss, not a declaration.

Why can’t I let it go?

I’m met by curious stares from London and Paige when I get back to the table.

“Who was that?” Paige asks.

“Wyatt,” I tell them, his name rolling off my tongue like a regret.

“Your jerky boss?” London questions.

“The very one.”

“You didn’t tell us he was so hot.” Paige makes a spectacle of fanning herself.

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