I distantly register “Nutshell” by Alice In Chains playing from the speakers as I drag my eyes up to his. So wide and dark, the pupils nearly wash them out. He grabs the bottle, despite what he just said. Not once does he take his eyes off me. Nor I him.

A silent understanding passes between us—one forged in pain and loss and rage.

So, so much rage.

At life, for letting us down. For not meeting those expectations promised to us in fairytales and movies. For crushing our dreams between its ironclad fist before they even had a chance to breathe.

At death, for coming too soon. For not stopping, no matter how much we begged and screamed into the void for it to just take a fucking moment to reconsider. To wait another twenty, thirty, fifty years.

At Izzy...

Zayne...

For leaving us behind.

“There we go again,” I whisper, a sad smile lifting my cheek. “Making things all dark and gloomy.”

Waylon swallows and looks past me. “But the sun will rise.”

“What?”

He refocuses on me and before my eyes, I watch as that soft, dimpled face hardens into steel. Watch how his cage rises, eyes narrow, lips tighten. He leans forward, close enough that I feel his hot, sweet breath on my cheek, and I go so still that for a second, I worry I’ve disappeared completely. Faded into nothing.

He’s all I hear, all I smell; and I am lost.

“Remember what I told you that morning on the bridge?” he whispers. “You just need to find a way to make it through the night. It won’t be dark forever.”

My heart grounds to a halt.

Something...something flickers there, under the surface of those earth-toned eyes. Between each grit-teethed utterance, razor-bladed exhale. It’s an answer to a question I’ve been seeking for what feels like my whole life.

Not lost. No, not lost at all.

“Way,” I breathe—

Something shatters and sparks outside, plunging us into black.

18

18

Will Foster

“Shit!” I yelp, jerking and losing my balance on the stool. Before I can get a grip on the bar, I go down in a tangle of uncoordinated limbs and stool legs.

Hard.

It’s definitely not one of my most graceful moments. I hear Waylon’s laughter upon my fall, which is louder than my groan of pain.

“Motherfucker,” I hiss. But it quickly melts into a laugh because whiskey is beautiful like that.

“Damn,” Waylon pants through his laughter. “You okay, man?”

I hear his clothes ruffle as he makes his way toward my sprawled-out form.

“Nope. Can’t move.”

“Poor baby,” he intones, his sock-clad foot bumping my calf.

And because I’m apparently a child when inebriated, I kick my foot out.

Waylon lets out a curse before landing next to me, his ankle draped over mine.

Now I’m the one laughing my ass off.