There’s a question in her words that I can’t answer. I love my mom, and her approval means the world to me. George would say that’s immature, but that’s just the way I’m built. “It was a long time ago,” I say, and I try to ignore the hurt that flashes in her eyes when she realizes I have no intention of saying anything more.

Easton

I wasn’t planning to come back to Jackson Harbor until Sunday, but after seeing Professor Douche with his . . . whatever she was to him this morning, I couldn’t wait to talk to Shay. Not that she replied to my text messages.

I thought about going to her apartment, but if there’s anything I’ve learned during the last couple of weeks, it’s that Shay doesn’t spend much time there. It seems like she’s always at work, the bar, or on her laptop in the apartment upstairs.

I’m not surprised to see her when I step out of the cold and into Jackson Brews. I am surprised to see that she’s working—not tapping away at her laptop, but pouring beers behind the bar, taking orders, and mixing drinks like a pro.

I’m already high on her list of Least Favorite People, and I secured my place on that list years ago by sharing information she probably would’ve been happier never knowing. It was a mistake and I regret it to this day, but this is different, isn’t it?

No matter how many times I think it over and plan my words, I know she’s going to hate the messenger for what I have to tell her, but what if I didn’t tell her and she found out I withheld that her boyfriend was screwing around with at least one other woman? There’s no doubt in my mind that she’d consider that a much worse crime.

I slide onto a stool and am all too aware of the way she stiffens when she registers my presence. “Hello, Shayleigh.”

She flicks her gaze over me quickly. And hell, if their coolers break, Jake can just have Shay keep the beer cold with her attitude toward me. “What can I get you?” Ice cold.

She already hates me. Might as well make myself public enemy number one by being the bearer of bad news. Fuck. Not just bad news. The shittiest news. “Can we talk?” I’m starting to sound like a broken record with this question.

She sighs, but she sounds more tired than annoyed. “Not right now, Easton.”

I spot her brother pushing out of the kitchen. “Hey, Jake.”

He lifts his chin at me and serves a basket of fried something to the couple at the end of the bar before heading down to our end. “What’s up?”