Page 42 of All We Are

I stare, unblinking, until it expires. Chewing my lip ring, I consider how or even if I should respond.

Upstairs, a door opens, and footsteps draw toward the steps.

Waylon appears around the corner, freshly showered and changed, dark brows spiking when he catches me looking over my shoulder.

“Morning,” he rasps.

“Morning,” I murmur.

His mouth ticks up, sinking a dimple in, before he ducks his head and turns around, heading for the kitchen.

I wait, straining my ears, picking up quiet, muffled talking. Then there’s the gasp and snick of a door, telling me Shawn and Waylon stepped outside for a smoke.

Giving up on my half-assed attempt to get back to sleep, I shove the blanket off and sit up, swinging my legs around. I rest my elbows on my thighs, head buried in my free hand. I tug and finger-comb at my messy hair, gnawing on my lip ring.

He took a bus home.

It stings that he snuck out like that—that he felt like he needed to—but I’m not even surprised. How we left things last night…

My swallow goes down slow and painful.

“It’s fine,” I murmur to myself.

Pushing to a stand, I dig out a sweatshirt from my bag and throw it on, leaving the hood up. I grab my phone, shove it in my pocket, and head for the kitchen. The coffee pot’s steaming and sputtering as I bypass the counters for the door, and join the others outside.

Waylon turns his head. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

Shawn gives me a nod in acknowledgement.

“Sleep okay?” Waylon asks.

My mind flashes to last night, and it’s a physical struggle not to look over at the vacant lounge chair. Like I’m revisiting the scene of a crime or something.

“Yeah,” I say, my pulse speeding up.

As if he senses it, Shawn offers his pack of smokes, and I gratefully grab one. Waylon arches a brow, but doesn’t say anything, just hands me his lighter. Maybe he feels it too. This…restless, worried energy thrumming under my skin.

I don’t smoke much, if at all. I’ve got enough vices to worry about. But the occasional cigarette here and there, especially when I’m craving something far more dangerous, can’t hurt.

“The others still sleeping?” I say tightly, holding smoke in.

Waylon nods. “I know Will is, and I assume the others are too.”

“How was the club?”

He shrugs, flicking me a knowing glance. “Not like it used to be. But it’s okay.”

I smile sadly. “Yeah, being sober takes a lot of the fun out of those kinds of places.”

Nodding, he brings his cigarette to his lips, taking a deep drag. Tipping his head back, he releases it, and says, “Yeah, but I don’t find myself missing it as much as I thought I would.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re in a relationship.”

He barks a short laugh at that. “True.” He slides me a look. “I think I’m just…over it. I had my fun, you know? ’til one day, it wasn’t fun anymore, and yet…I kept doing it.” He shakes his head. “I don’t miss that feeling, and I don’t think it’s possible to go back to how it was when it was all new and shiny, and alcohol wasn’t this….” He waves a hand, trailing off, face bunching with bitterness. “Thing.”

“Yeah,” I say, knowing exactly what he means. Alcohol is not my poison of choice, but I stay away from it for a reason. It might as well be the slide that leads right into a needle-filled ball pit.

---