“Still not into porn. But those wings might—”

“Nope. You only get wings if you come out with us. Alone wings are sad wings,” she said seriously. “Come on, you haven’t been out since you got back into town. You’ve been alone enough. If you’re going to be here for a while to work on the book, you might as well have some people you can go out and have a beer with. And don’t writers need inspiration? Don’t you have to, like, actually live in the world a little bit?”

Ash shifted uncomfortably. “You don’t have to take the fresh start this far, Kincaid. I’m okay.”

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want you to come,” she said. “Is it that hard to believe I don’t want to see you sad over a breakup? I’ve been cheated on. I know what that feels like, and wallowing doesn’t fix it. Come out, be distracted.”

He stared at her, surprised by the genuine invitation but not surprised that Kincaid couldn’t turn off that part of her personality. She’d never liked to see anyone down. “I’m not sure your friends would want some guy you knew from high school tagging along.”

She rolled her eyes. “My friends are people from high school. Small town, remember?”

“But…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He’d known Kincaid’s friends from high school. He’d been one of them. None of the others she’d hung out with regularly had survived.

“We weren’t close back then, but we are now,” she said as if reading his mind. “You’ll know who they are. Didn’t you used to have honors classes with Rebecca Lindt and Taryn Landry? And Finn Dorsey played on the team for your dad. He’s married to Liv Arias now.”

“When did you become friends with them?” he asked, confused by the motley crew of names.

“We became friends after…everything,” she said, the pep in her voice mellowing. “Liv, Taryn, Rebecca, and I were in a support group together. Those three kept me from completely losing it back then.”

Something hollowed out in his stomach. That should’ve been him. He and Kincaid had been each other’s support system since they were kids. But he’d ruined it. He’d been alone after that night. He was relieved to hear she hadn’t been. “I’m glad you had somebody,” he said quietly.

Her eyes met his briefly, and he could tell she caught his meaning. She wet her lips. “I lost touch with them for years after the support group disbanded, but we reconnected when they filmed that Long Acre documentary here. They’re good people. The best, actually. You’ll like them. And their husbands.”

Ash felt itchy in his own skin. He recognized the names she’d listed, but he felt so other from all those people now. He’d left. He hadn’t gone through the town’s collective grieving process. He’d refused to participate in the documentary. He felt like a stranger to this town and the people in it. “Kincaid, I don’t think—”