Everyone had been there—Drake, Mason, Gabe, Miranda, Connor, Logan, Cole’s mom, his aunt, and of course, Geraldine—all but Zane, but they were hopeful he could make it home for a couple of days over Christmas. They’d had enough food for four armies and had gone through at least half of it at the early-afternoon meal. When they’d started pulling out the leftovers for round two this evening, though, Cole had slipped out. He’d had enough of the togetherness, the happy family, the warmth. He was lucky to have them, glad they were happy, but he himself was miserable inside, and hiding that was a lot of work.

He had no one to blame but himself for the miserableness, and that made it all the worse. He’d let Sierra down, no two ways about it. After going over everything she’d said the other night, sixty or seventy times or maybe a thousand, he couldn’t argue with any of it. He’d taken her bad news and made it about him instead of being the support she needed. Deserved. If he could punch himself in the face for that, he would.

Having gulped down half of the Johnnie already, he set down the glass, propped his elbows on the counter, and absently cracked the knuckles of each hand as he beat himself up mentally.

Winona appeared out of nowhere, reached across the bar, and grasped his hands in hers, stopping his knuckle cracking. “It’s been a while since you got in a fight. Maybe a record for you. Think you could keep it going a little longer?”

“I’m not gonna fight tonight,” he said, knowing full well it was a record and that he hadn’t fought since he’d gone to Kennedy’s wedding with Sierra. Knowing full well, also, that it wasn’t a coincidence. The truth was, he’d been walking around without the ongoing haze of anger that he hadn’t truly realized had been clinging to him for, shit, years. “Fact is, I’m tired of fighting.”

She released his hands, and he took another deep swallow of whiskey, thinking about how true that statement was, how encompassing.

He felt like he’d been fighting his whole life. Fighting being different when he was a kid. Fighting the need to belong. Fighting the need for friends. Fighting his family and his dad and his brothers and the family business. Fighting his feelings for Sierra.

Fighting the bad stuff as well as the good.

“Sometimes it feels like I’ve wasted most of my life fighting,” he said as Winona, more relaxed than usual tonight, leaned her elbows on her side of the counter and stopped tidying, pouring, stocking, fixing, and serving for once.

“Sounds like it’s time to stop fighting then.”