I squeeze the knot of tension at the back of my neck. “Why don’t you stay in Jackson Harbor for a few days before you make that decision?” Chicago is too “small-town feel” for Scarlett. Jackson Harbor isn’t going to be her thing.

She beams and flips her long red hair. “Is that an invitation?”

“It’s not my town, Scar. Do what you want.”

“I mean, are you inviting me to stay with you and Abi until I make my decision?”

Oh, hell no. Not only do Scarlett and I get along a thousand times better when we don’t live together, but I wouldn’t do that to Shay. “Nope. You could stay in a hotel or get a temporary lease, but you and I don’t work under one roof, remember?”

She sticks out her bottom lip in a pout. “So says you.”

I look at my watch. Every minute that passes is a minute Shay has to decide we made a mistake. I reach into my pocket for my keys. “I need to get out of here. Talk to Jake or Carter about the best hotels nearby.”

Shay lives in a third-floor walk-up a couple of blocks from the bar. I know this thanks to Mrs. Jackson, who was pleased to hear that I wanted to swing by and bring Shay some dinner, since she’s been working so hard lately. To make good on my promise, I grabbed pizza and a six-pack of beer on my way over.

But when I get there, no one answers.

A gray-haired lady opens the door across the hall. “She’s not home yet.”

I swallow. “Do you know where she is?”

She shakes her head. “Hardly ever sleeps here, far as I can tell.”

Because she’s with George? Is that where she is now? Jesus. I can’t believe this night. “Here.” I hold out the pizza. “You like pepperoni and jalapenos?”

She takes the box and pulls a piece from inside before backing into her apartment. “Thanks. I’ll tell Shayleigh you came by.”

I stand outside her apartment like an idiot for at least ten more minutes. When she doesn’t come home, I text.

I never chose Scarlett over you. She would lose that matchup every time. I chose my daughter over myself.

Shay

“I slept with Easton,” I blurt when Teagan opens the door.

“I’m sorry—what?” She makes a few fish faces like she’s trying to talk and is failing. “You . . . slept with him.”

I cringe. “Maybe ‘sleeping’ isn’t the right euphemism. There was no sleeping. And no bed.” I thread my fingers through my hair and tug. “Just a wall and some very athletic fucking.”

Her eyes are wide. I’ve been shocking her right and left, it seems. “Okay. Well, that’s not exactly what I had in mind when I told you not to make any decisions.”