Fortunately, no one’s close enough to have heard us—I don’t think—and it’s not like we were doing anything that would warrant suspicion.

Fuck. Listen to me.

This is why I always made it a habit to avoid guys who were still questioning, and especially why I steered clear of closeted guys. There’s a very fine line between respecting someone else’s wishes, and maintaining your own sense of worth. Between protecting them, and hurting yourself.

A very fine line.

Because, so long as Waylon keeps this hidden, he’s the one with all the power here.

But lucky for me, I don’t really have the time to worry about that right now. Not when there are more pressing matters at hand, as trouble brews across the bar.

There’s a noticeable shift in the air—an insidious sort of tension rising and blanketing over the small crowd of people—as all eyes seem to slowly, then all at once, hone in on the far back corner of the bar. Right next to the stage.

Save for the low music still trickling out of the speakers, it’s almost dead-quiet.

Waylon breathes out a curse just as I register the sound of a scuffle.

“Fuck off,” a familiar voice slurs.

Mason.

Waylon’s already on the move, practically catapulting himself over the bar as he hops down next to me. Not wasting a second, he heads toward his friend, with me fast on his heels. I distantly realize Shawn’s no longer behind the bar either, but all it takes is a quick sweep of the room to see his head as he towers over the couple people rubbernecking from their stools.

Waylon’s in front of me, so when he comes to an abrupt stop just as we pass the edge of the bar, I end up bumping into him. Over his shoulder, I watch as Mason struggles to a stand, using the jukebox as leverage so his knees don’t buckle.

In his other hand, he’s got a handle of vodka that looks about a fourth of the way empty, and I don’t miss the dried blood crusted to his bone-white knuckles as he strangles the neck of the bottle.

Fuck.

He broke his sobriety.

I mean, I know pills were his vice of choice, not alcohol. But I also know that means jack shit when it comes to addiction. Especially when it comes to Mason.

“Moderation isn’t possible for those two,” I remember Waylon telling me over the phone a couple weeks ago—one of the nights he couldn’t sleep after a rough therapy session. He was trying to rationalize his own drinking habits, by comparing his struggle with Shawn and Mason’s. Making a so-called game plan. “It wouldn’t stop with alcohol.”

No, I recall thinking. Because alcohol is just a stepping stone for them. For you, it’s your whole world.