“Now I risk getting you drunk if I make you do it the right way.”

“I’m not drunk.” I shake my head. “I don’t feel anything.”

He grunts. “Give it a minute.” He steps around me and stands at the counter, pouring himself another shot. I guess he’s not going to drink it from my glass this time. It’s dumb to be disappointed.

He doesn’t bother with the salt or lime, just throws it back. Doesn’t even grimace. Then he braces his arms on the counter and hangs his head.

I’d have to be emotionally stunted not to feel the change in his mood. He just went from playful flirt to morose jock in the span of a blink. “What’s wrong?”

He shrugs. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

He drags a hand through his hair and finally turns to me. He leans back against the counter. “Can you keep a secret?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates a beat, and I see the emotions playing across his face—he’s trying to decide if he can trust me with this, or if he even wants to own up to whatever it is.

“I never told anyone when I caught you with that dirty magazine when you were thirteen.”

His eyes widen and he grins. “Oh, fuck. I’d completely forgotten about that. Jesus.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fair enough. That kind of discretion so young is definitely meaningful.”

“Meaningful? Are you kidding me? That’s preteen blackmail gold, and I never used it. Not even when you wouldn’t dump that girl you took to senior prom.”

His forehead wrinkles, and I can tell he’s trying to remember his date.

“Hilary,” I remind him.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to dump her.”

“I didn’t realize I needed to spell it out for you. I told you she was a bitch and you deserved better.”

“Honestly, I was eighteen, and she was hot and willing. I probably didn’t care that she was a bitch.”

“She called me a fat tagalong.”

“What?” The tops of his ears turn pink—a tell I learned long ago means he’s angry. “You never told me that.”

I shrug. When Easton was with Hilary, I was fourteen. I’d foolishly believed that he wouldn’t notice I was fat if no one ever told him. Not the dumbest thing I’ve let myself believe in the name of loving him, but not a delusion I’m particularly proud of either.

“You’re not fat,” he says.

I fold my arms and arch a brow. “Come on, Easton. I might be naive and shamefully inexperienced for a girl my age, but my eyes work just fine.”

He holds up a finger. “One, so do mine, and you’re not fat. You’re not skinny. You have a nice body.”