Page 85 of Twins for the Mountain Daddies

I rub a hand over my jaw, pacing the cabin. The wood stove pops, heat settling into the room, but it doesn’t touch the cold inside me. I keep thinking about her. Not Ivy. The other one. The woman who broke me.

I’ve been lied to before. More than lied to—manipulated. My ex-fiancée was a master of it. Twisted me into knots, wrapped me around her finger, made me think I was enough,thiswas enough. Until the day she decided I wasn’t. She left, simple as that, didn’t even look back. Went off to the city, chasing something bigger. I was just a step on her way up the ladder. A fool who thought love was enough.

Maybe I’m wrong about Ivy. Maybe I’m not.

What I do know is it hurts like hell to be left behind again. Even if it is my fault.

My hands are numb, but I feel a warmth in my chest, an uncomfortable heat that I recognize as anger. Anger at Ivy, anger at myself for letting this happen again. I didn’t ask for any of this. That girl stormed into my life and turned it upside down. I wanted to keep things simple, but she made that impossible the second she showed up in that bathroom.

Now I’m stuck here, alone with my thoughts, wondering if she’s gone for good. If she is, I shouldn’t care. She’s not mine to worry about.

But damn it all, I do.

I can’t tell up from down anymore, and it’s eating me alive. The silence in the cabin closes in, pressing against my skull. Feels like I’m going to explode, and no amount of chopping wood is going to fix this.

For a second, I think about what it would be like if I swallowed my pride and went after her. If I wasn’t such astubborn bastard and just asked her what the hell she wanted. But then I remember how it felt to be left behind, to be nothing more than a stepping stone, and I shove that thought right back where it came from.

I’m not doing this again.

Not with her. Not with anyone.

Still, I should have asked about her when Wyatt called in last. I just…couldn’t. He didn’t mention her either. If something happened, they would have told me, right? If she was sick or hurt or...Wyatt’s not cruel enough to leave me in the dark about it, even if I did screw things up with Ivy.

If they’re leaving for good, they’d have let me know. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they think I don’t deserve to know after the way I acted. They’re right.

I’m torn in two, part of me wanting to grab the radio and call them back, demand to know what’s going on. The other part of me is too damn proud to admit I care.

I pace the cabin, restless. Gremlin watches me from her corner, eyes narrowed. It looks like she’s judging me. She probably is. Girl’s got more backbone than I do, that’s for sure.

I sink into the chair by the window, staring out at nothing. I’m a damn fool, and the worst part is, I don’t even know if I’m being a fool for holding on or for letting go.

I should have asked about her.

I should have swallowed my pride and just asked.

The whiskey burns on the way down, but not as much as the memories. I keep drinking more in hopes of drowning them, but they keep bobbing back up like dead fish in a pond. I drink until I’m numb, and then I drink some more.

I should be better at this by now—being alone. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it? Solitude. No complications, no strings. Just me and the mountains.

But she’s wormed her way into my head, and I can’t get her out. I take another swig, hoping the alcohol will wash her away, but it doesn’t. It just brings her into sharper focus.

Closing my eyes only makes it worse because I see everything. I can feel her body beneath my hands, the way she shuddered when I finally gave in. That first moment, sinking into her, damn near undid me. I can hear the way she said my name, raw and desperate.

But, more than that, it’s the way she laughed. That low, throaty sound, warm as a fire on a frozen night, curling through me, settling in places I thought had gone cold for good. Those whiskey eyes of hers haunt me the most. Same color as the bottle I’m working my way through, but where the liquor burns, hers never did.

I drink more, trying to silence the voice in my head that keeps saying she’s not the same. That she’s not like my ex, not like the others. But the whiskey’s not doing its job, and the voice keeps getting louder.

I’m spiraling, and I know it. Memories of my ex mix with thoughts of Ivy, blurring together until I can’t tell which way is up. I’m back in that place I swore I’d never be again, and I hate myself for letting it happen.

The whiskey bottle’s half-empty, or maybe it’s half-full. I can’t tell anymore. Time’s slipping away, and I’m still stuck in my own head, still thinking about her.

The cabin’s dark, and I’m drunk off my ass, but I can’t stop. Can’t stop remembering the way she smiled, the way she made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t as broken as I thought.

I’m a damn fool.

A damn fool who can’t stop thinking about a girl who’s probably already forgotten all about him. Even if she hasn’t, she’ll never forgive me.

I drink until there’s nothing left to drink, until I’m too far gone to feel anything but miserable.

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