He tried to shove the thought away as soon as he had it—not because she didn’t deserve credit, but because just that smallest idea of her was messing with his head, making him crazy when he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to go there anymore.
This was why they told addicts not to get into a relationship right out of rehab—because if it went bad, if the woman you’d fallen head over heels in love with didn’t feel the same, it was ten times as hard to stay clean. Ten times as hard to fight the voices in your head, telling you that you were weak and worthless. Turned out it was pretty good advice. Too bad he hadn’t listened to it.
But that’s what his friends were here for. A little extra support to make sure he didn’t score, no matter how much he wanted to. Last night, he’d lain in bed thinking about Poppy and wanting a hit so badly he’d nearly crawled out of his skin. He’d made it through it though, and he was going to make it through this as well.
One day at a time and all that. Maybe if he strung enough of those days together he’d finally have the nerve to go after Poppy, to apologize for essentially calling her a whore. He’d been hurt by her revelation—blindsided by it—but that wasn’t an excuse for saying what he had to her. He’d apologized, but shit. How did you come back from saying something like that?
For what had to be the hundredth time since she left, he pulled out his phone. Thought about texting her another apology. About begging her to come back to him. But he wasn’t sure he was strong enough to handle the rejection she was sure to send his way. Wasn’t sure he’d be able to stay sober if she told him to get lost.
And he wanted—needed to stay sober. To prove to her, and himself, that he was a better man than he’d ever thought he was.
Which meant no text. Not today. Not until he was sure he could handle the pain it would cause.
Once they made it into the bar—which was about half full—they snagged a table in the darkest corner. It was just one of the tricks they’d learned through the years, on how to be as unobtrusive as possible.
“First round’s on me,” Ryder said, heading to the bar. He didn’t ask what anyone wanted, but then again, after all these years, they all knew one another’s preferences.
Wyatt settled into a chair and turned his attention to the small stage at the front of the club. Big Bad Wolf was right in the center of it, playing a pretty decent song. He figured he’d go up when the set was done, say hello. Make sure they knew he’d come. But as the song came to an end, Jace’s eyes met his. The kid’s face went slack with shock and then he was surreptitiously pointing him out to his two bandmates.
The others turned to stare at him, too, huge grins on their faces. And then with what could only be described as a cackle of glee, they were launching into a pretty decent cover of Shaken Dirty’s “Closer.” All in all, he decided, it wasn’t a bad way to spend a Friday night.
Ryder came back from the bar with five bottles of Dr Pepper. Wyatt thought about making a comment, but then decided, fuck it. If his friends wanted to look out for him this way, then who was he to say any differently.
The band finished “Closer” with a drum riff that was pretty damn impressive, then launched into an earlier Shaken Dirty song that had all of the guys grinning and reminiscing as they filled Drew in on ancient history.
At least until Poppy walked up to the table and stopped right in front of Wyatt.
Then the whole group of them went wide-eyed and silent in a hurry. Including Wyatt himself.
His brain was screaming at him to say something to her, but it couldn’t figure out what words he was supposed to say. How could it when all he could think was beautiful and sexy and mine. That’s what really kept his mouth shut—the fear that when he opened it again the only word that would come out was mine.
And she wasn’t his, not anymore. Not ever, really, considering they were over before they’d actually had a chance to begin.
But she was here now, bouncing from one foot to another and looking at him with those big brown eyes of hers. That had to count for something, right? He hated the hope he felt, the way his heart skipped a beat at just the thought of talking to her again. Of kissing her, touching her, making love to her.
“Can I talk to you?” she said, shouting a little to be heard over the music.
For a second, just a second, he thought about turning her away. About telling her he wasn’t interested anymore. It had nearly killed him when she’d walked away from him at Antone’s, had taken every ounce of willpower he had not to drown himself in the bottom of a bottle of tequila.
But refusing to talk to her would be a lot like cutting off his nose to spite his face, so he nodded and said, “Yeah, of course.”