Waylon doesn’t say anything else right away. I still haven’t looked at him; I’m not sure I can yet. Not when I can still hear those damning words replaying in my head on one endless, nauseating loop.

“It’s only a matter of time before my luck runs out. Might as well see how far I can take it. First my dad tries and fails, then the gun jams—”

My brain just...stops there. Stops and starts all over in some fucked up effort to process something from pretty much nothing.

Except it’s not nothing.

It says everything.

Everything I never wanted to know.

Not for the first time, I wish I could turn back time. Go back to last night, and turn down Reggie’s request for help. Hell, take me back to the moment I decided coming back to this town was a good idea in the first place, and let me smack that dumbass across the face.

We’re silent as we pass the cigarette between us, finishing it off; lost in our own heads as we stare at the front yard. Hidden from the main road, I can almost imagine it’s just the two of us out here. Pretend that we’re just on some weekend getaway in the woods, off the grid, without a worry to be had. Together.

I blow out a cloud of smoke, grimacing at that last thought. Delusional much?

“It’s not what you think—”

“I shouldn’t have come here,” I say over him. I watch as he silently stubs out the cigarette on the railing before tossing it over the edge into the bushes.

He doesn’t say anything right away, but I can feel his eyes boring into the side of my face. Eventually, he whispers, “Here, as in this house, or here, as in...?”

“As in Shiloh.” My jaw ticks. I fold my hands together between my thighs and squeeze. “You were right. That day on the bridge. I should have never come back. I should have never stayed. I was foolish to think this would be anything but another fucking heartbreak to add to the seemingly ever-growing list.”

His throat clears. “I thought you said...”

I laugh, and it’s an ugly sound—jagged, bordering on cruel. I turn my head just enough to get a peek of his face. “I know what I said, Way.”

His brow furrows slightly.

It’s you, it’s you, it’s always been fucking you. Don’t you fucking get that?

I sweep my gaze over his face, taking in his slightly chapped lips and the smattering of dark stubble along his jawline. His black hair flops messily over his brow, drawing attention to the shadows blooming from under his normally bright hazel eyes. He looks exhausted. Hollow. Beaten.

He at least had some fight left in him last night, as brief and terrible as it was. Now he just looks...

Defeated.

Lost.