“Here you go,” Myla says, walking up to me with another glass of wine. Our fourth of the night.

“Thank you,” I answer.

“You know, when I was getting the wine, Kelsey came up to me and asked why you looked so sad. I told her it was because you had a hard time getting it up this morning and can’t get over it.”

I nearly spit out my wine as I turn toward her. “What?”

Chuckling, she brings her glass of wine to her lips and says, “Not really, but I’m glad you’re no longer pouting.”

“I wasn’t . . . Jesus, I wasn’t pouting.”

“Please, you were pouting.”

Banner walks up to us while holding a plate of meats in his hand and says, “Heard you couldn’t get it up this morning.”

I shoot a glare at Myla, who is now smirking—a genuine smirk—and I honestly can’t fucking remember the last time I saw her do that. “I might have said that to Banner because I was uncomfortable. Given our situation, I just said the first thing that came to mind.”

“It happens to all of us, man,” Banner says, gripping my shoulder. “No need to be ashamed.”

“I’m not ashamed. I’m just wondering why the hell that’s something we’re talking about when you didn’t even see me this morning.” I direct my attention toward Myla.

She taps the side of her head. “Don’t need to see you to know that cosmic shift in the air when you can’t get it up. It’s like a cloud of humidity surrounds us, a dull throb roaring through the moist air. He didn’t get it up. He didn’t get it up.”

I stare at her, truly fucking stare because color me confused. This is the fucking Myla I fell in love with. This is the girl whom I couldn’t get enough of. This is whom I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. Where has she been hiding?

Behind me.

Behind my dreams.

Behind my aspirations. Because of my fucked-up sense of entitlement.

I miss this girl so fucking much.

Banner’s laughter breaks through my thoughts. “He is moodier when he doesn’t come, isn’t he?”

Looking between them, feeling more confused than ever, I say, “I think you’ve both had too much wine. Not sure flaccid dick should be a topic of conversation in a place like this.”

“You’re right.” Myla squeezes my arm. “Flaccid dick should be saved for a place that at least serves shots.”

“So right,” Banner says while offering a high five, and she takes it.

What the fuck is going on?

* * *

“Aren’t you going to ask me to dance?” Myla asks as she sets her wineglass down.

“Do you want to dance?” I ask her.

She taps her chin for a moment. “I’m not sure. The last time we danced, you stepped all over my feet.”

“The last time we danced was at our wedding,” I say.

“Yes, and I recall scuff marks all over my shoes because of you.”