And if Drew breaks up with me, I’ll lose the last anchor keeping my fans with the Diary. So many of them have said that Drew’s the main reason they stick around anyway, and with the Bunfrees troll scaring people away, there’s no way it’ll survive without him.

“Just a few more hands, okay?” Drew says, and I nod even though we both know it won’t be just a few more hands.

I slink back to my seat and pull out my phone to text Devin, but my fingers shake as I type out the message. I don’t want to send it. I don’t want to finalize the fact that I won’t be there—that I’m stuck here for the rest of the night. But I send it anyway.

A few minutes later, I get the response: No problem! I hope everything’s okay. See you at work :).

And I find myself fighting back tears because I’d rather be at work than here. Hell, I’d rather be anywhere else.

Sunday morning, I stay in bed late because I’m still hungover from the beers I downed after my fight with Drew. And like, that means a lot because I fucking hate beer.

I finally come out of the closet just after one and find a sticky note on the front door that says, Went out with some friends. Take out the trash.

Great.

Usually, if I was in this shitty of a mood, I’d call Drew and ask him to hang out, but that’s definitely not going to happen. I don’t know if he’s going to apologize for last night or not, but I don’t want to see him, even if he is still reeling from his parents’ divorce.

And then there’s the fact that today’s the first morning I didn’t get a “good morning” text from him, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t just forget.

I call Becca, hoping she can help me out with the Diary. To my utter surprise, she answers on the third ring, her voice low as she says, “Hello?”

“Oh my God, Becca, you are not going to believe—”

“Noah,” she cuts me off, and I freeze because something in her voice just doesn’t sound right. It doesn’t sound Becca.

We sit in silence for a moment before she says, “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“I—” Honestly, I don’t think she’s ever said anything like that to me before, and I’m not even sure how to respond. Finally, I say, “Did something happen? Are you mad at me?”

She sighs. “It’s kind of rich how you always ask if I’m mad at you instead of asking how I’m doing.”