He doesn’t move. Hell, I don’t even think he’s breathing.

I start to shake my head. Smile fading.

Because I know that look.

Painfully so.

I know it as well as I know the face that stares back at me every time I look in a mirror.

His throat labors through a hard swallow, and I can’t help but run through everything that’s been said since we ran into each other. Did I miss something?

But...

No.

No, in fact, he hasn’t said one thing about Isobel Montgomery all day.

Which, to be fair, isn’t that shocking when you think about it. A decade is a long fucking time, even if it feels like a blink of the eye in hindsight. Just because Mason and Waylon are still close, doesn’t mean the same applies for Izzy. Childhood friendships rarely survive adulthood.

Yeah, they were inseparable back then. All three of them were, but especially those two. Even at only ten years old, it was obvious to everyone who knew them how much Mason adored Izzy. How much they meant to each other.

But then I think about Waylon...

What he once meant to me, and what I thought I meant to him...

And we got a glimpse of how well that turned out.

But with every weighted second that passes as I watch Mason now—watch as he seems to grapple desperately for some sense of purchase; anything to pull himself out of whatever darkness is dragging him down—the less hopeful I am that this could be anything short of tragic.

Devastating.

I think back on everything that transpired with Waylon mere minutes ago. The underlying tension I couldn’t quite see beyond my own misgivings, not until now. The haunted look in Mason’s gaze as he stared after his friend, tapping his fingers restlessly against his thigh.

“I’m a drug addict.”

“Recovering!”

With everything going on, I almost forgot about that.

“Mason,” I breathe.

“She’s not here,” he says flatly, almost coldly. He drops his hardened gaze to the floor. “She’s not—” His voice catches and he screws his eyes shut before turning away.

Rubbing my fingers over my sternum, I look anywhere but at him.

It’s bad, is all I can think. It’s really, really bad.

I don’t know how I know this. I just do.

What else would cause such a visceral reaction?

A pregnant silence settles over us as I debate asking what happened, but I’m quick to shove away the urge. Something tells me Mason is the last person I should be asking.

My gaze drifts over the bar, taking in the dark wood interior. It’s bigger than I was expecting. More spacious. But that’s probably because most of the tables have been shoved up against the wall. I’m sure it feels a lot smaller when it’s open and packed with people.