31. Pity Party

Monroe

Supposedly, when one door closes, another opens. But I've never been a big believer in that adage. You have to open your own damn doors, and close them too.

But this time I literally believe it, since seconds after Juliet takes off with my heart in her hands, Carter strolls in. My football-playing friend jerks his gaze behind him as Rachel and Juliet drive off. Then snaps his focus back to me, assessing me with shrewd eyes. "Dude," Carter says, shaking his head as he strides across the living room.

And…that's all it takes for him to read the room.

Standing in the hallway, still shell-shocked, still hollow as a jack o' lantern, I shrug. Listlessly. "Yeah."

"Seriously?" he asks, quirking a brow as he confirms his take.

"Yes, seriously," I say, voice dead.

He stops a few feet in front of me. "You're just letting her go?"

I wave a hand. "It's complicated."

"Heart surgery is complicated. This is easy."

I stare at him like he didn't just say that. "Just because something isn't heart or brain surgery doesn't make it easy. Just because something is about emotions, or choices, doesn't mean it's simple."

He holds up his hands. "My bad. When it comes to analogies, that is. Point is, this is easy."

I check the time on my phone. I'm not due at my dad's party for a couple hours and it doesn't take me long to get ready. I'm itching to get away from the scent of her, the feel of her, the thoughts of her. "I need to get out of this house. Stat."

"Let me buy you a shot? That is easy."

I give him a humorless smile. "Good analogy."

We take off in my car and head to Mister Fox, a pool hall on the edge of town. At the bar, we grab stools a few spots away from an inked, burly guy who's even bigger than Carter. Since my buddy's six-three, that's saying something. The dark-haired man gives us a chin nod.

There aren't many of us here at this earlyish hour, so the bartender heads over to us. The guy looks a little like, well, a fox, with his tawny hair and sharp eyes. "What can I get for you?"

"Two shots of Adictivo," I say.

"Coming right up," he says, then heads to the end of the counter to hunt for the tequila bottle.

Carter wastes no time, dealing me a hard stare. "So what's the deal? Did you two break up?"

"No." You'd have to have been together to split up. "Not really," I correct.

He shoots me a dubious look. "Which one is it?"

My chest twinges with self-loathing. I drag a hand down my face, muttering, "She wants to try. I want to try. But I don't want to hurt her if I can't be the guy she needs."

"Maybe let her make that decision," Carter says, like it's that easy.

But…

Damn him. That's good advice. I never gave her a choice. "Could I?" Except, reality hits me like an anvil dropped from a skyscraper. "Fuck." I curse louder than I intended. "She's throwing herself a breakup party. Fuck, fuck, fuck."

The big guy looks my way. "Maybe you need to make it a double."

"Maybe that'll knock some sense into him," Carter says, while pointing his thumb at me.

"Does he need sense knocked into him? That's my specialty," the guy replies, with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Are you a linebacker? They're always trying to knock sense into someone," Carter asks.

"Linebacker of sorts," he says, then nods as the bartender returns our way. "Name is Banks. Close protection officer."

The bartender sets down the shots, offering a helpful smile along with the liquor. "Translation: bodyguard."

Yeah, I knew that. But I don't say that. "I probably do need the sense knocked into me," I admit.

The bartender takes off to handle some new customers, but Banks is all in. Turning his big frame toward us, he says, "Let me guess. You messed up with your special someone?"

"He did," Carter offers, clapping my shoulder, happy to pile on. I deserve the piling on.

Banks arches a brow. "And now she's left you and she's celebrating? Did I hear that right?"

With an oh shit whistle Carter whips his gaze back to me. "Exactly. You've got your work cut out for you, man. She's moving on."

Again, the assessment is quick and cutting.

And wholly accurate.

After my dad's retirement party, Juliet's throwing what amounts to a breakup party—her favorite breakup party—for me. The one where she hired a makeup artist, and they went out for karaoke. She's doing it to move on from me.

Even if I asked her, there's no way she's going to wait for me.

Everyone is moving on in their lives but me. What am I doing with my life? "And I'm throwing myself a pity party," I say, turning the shot glass as aimlessly as I'm living my life.

Banks snorts. "No one wants to be invited to that."

That's the damn truth and so is this one. There is no waiting. There's only now.

I need to find a way to keep Juliet. Because what if I could be the man she needs? What if I could make a go of it? What if I could let her decide if I'm good enough instead of making the decision for her?

You don't ask a woman to wait for you. You treat her like the queen she is. I knock back my shot, pay for all our drinks, then take off with Carter, making a pit stop on the way.