Magnolia clears her throat. “I need a drink. Do you want one?”

I huff out a short laugh, relieved by the distraction. “Yeah. I’ll take a double of whatever you’re having.” I meet her eyes, letting the corner of my mouth lift. “Hell, make mine a triple.”

A hint of a smirk flickers across her lips before she turns toward the bar cart in the corner. “This reunion is worthy of a tall one, don’t you agree?”

“Understatement.”

She moves, graceful and deliberate, pulling out a bottle of bourbon and taking out the ingredients. The familiarity—the way she measures, stirs, and pours with practiced ease—takes me straight back to that day on the yacht.

The ice clinks against the glass as she hands me the drink, her fingers brushing mine. Even that slight, fleeting contact sends a jolt through me, a stark reminder of just how long it’s been since I’ve touched her.

“Old-fashioned just the way you like it.”

The amber liquid burns its way down my throat. “Still the best I’ve ever had.”

Hell, she’s still the best I’ve ever had.

“Glad to hear that I’ve still got that special touch.”

We sit in silence, both sipping. Both avoiding.

The drink goes down easy—too easy. The burn barely registers before I’m tipping back the glass again, draining it faster than I should. But fuck it. After everything, it’s warranted. The last swallow hits hard, and I set the empty glass down with a dull thud.

Magnolia arches a brow. “You slammed that.”

I lean back, running my hands through the top of my hair. “Long day.”

She hums in agreement, staring down at her drink. “A long day? Hell, it’s been a long six months.”

I’m not sure what she means by that, but I’m not confused about what it’s meant for me––six long fucking months of trying to erase her from my skin, my mind, my soul—and failing at every turn.

“Are you at least happy?”

Magnolia’s head snaps up, her eyes narrowing with something sharp… something that looks a lot like anger. “Why would you ask me that?”

I shift forward, elbows digging into my knees. “Why wouldn’t I ask?”

She glares at me. “How could I be happy?”

“Because you’re the one who called the shots. You moved on, commitment free, just like you wanted.”

Her eyes widen, disbelief flickering into something closer to outrage. She slams her drink down with a sharp clink, and delivers a scowl that hits somewhere deep, tightening everything inside me. “What the hell are you talking about? I haven’t moved on. Not even a little bit.”

My brain scrambles, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of this conversation.

If she hasn’t moved on, then what the hell has all of this been for?

I’m so fucking lost.