I must do a piss-poor job of masking my emotions because Waylon suddenly groans in frustration. He mutters a curse under his breath, then, “Will, look at me.”

He doesn’t sound angry, but I know how fast that can change.

I must have just enough liquor in me and not enough fucks to give, because I find myself doing as I’m told. Knowing he’ll no doubt see every lick of pain I’m feeling written across my face, I steel myself for the ugly words I can only imagine are seconds from coming my way. I can’t be certain I wouldn’t react the same were our roles reversed, and I was the one suddenly in the hot seat.

He sweeps my features, his hazel eyes tightening at the corners. I swear something like remorse flashes across his face, before solidifying into that cool, indifferent mask once more.

He points at my face. “That. That right there is why I never wanted you to know,” he says harshly. “You’re not the one who hurt me, so please for the love of all that is holy, get that fucking look off your face before I go back on my word and do it for you.”

Eyes burning, I drop them to look down at my folded hands.

“There was nothing you could have done,” he says thickly. “You need to accept that and move on. This isn’t your cross to bear, so stop trying to make it yours.”

“Then why were you so mad at me?” I steel myself and meet his gaze with a determined one of my own. The whiskey giving me just enough edge to not back down. “Why are you still so mad at me? Why did it even matter that I beat up Billy? That kid was an asshole anyway. I never told a soul I thought it was your dad.” I pause meaningfully. “I believed you.”

His jaw clenches, and he looks away.

“I’m just trying to understand, Waylon.” My voice cracks and I hate it. I hate that this still bothers me so much after all this time. It’s pathetic. Ridiculous. “Was it because of what happened? Because we kissed—”

He growls, “I told you—”

“And I don’t believe you,” I snap. “Not anymore. I did then, because I was young and I was stupid. But you’re not fooling anyone here, Waylon. Not anymore.”

He stills. “Don’t do this.”

I search the hard planes of his profile. Take in the way he chews on his lip as his fingers start to skitter along the frets again, framing silent chords as his other hand grips the bottle of Jack. Holding it to his mouth, just inches away. Frozen.

Shit. What am I doing?

“Fine. Just tell me one thing then,” I say quietly, slowly. “Did what happen between us on your birthday have anything to do with what your dad did to you?”