But obviously, I couldn’t tell him that. He’s not ready to fucking hear it.

Shaking away the memory, I focus on the scene at hand.

Light blue eyes rimmed in red lift to us, struggling to focus before finally managing to settle on Waylon’s face. His chest heaves, curly light brown hair disheveled, like he’s been running his hands through it. His lip looks red and swollen to shit as if he’s been gnawing at it, drawing even more startling attention to the silver hoop.

Mason lifts the bottle to Waylon and grins. “Want some?”

I go rigid as red fills my vision. As if sensing how close I am to the edge, Waylon throws an arm up, effectively blocking me from storming past him. Some distant, rational part of my brain realizes Mason didn’t mean anything by it—not really—but it doesn’t matter.

He knows Waylon’s trying to cut back.

He knows Waylon has a problem, despite the fact that none of them seem to want to admit it.

So, drunk or not, it’s no fucking excuse. I don’t care.

Shawn barks Mason’s name, and I watch as the latter seems to cower. Reprimanded like a child. I only then register Jeremy at his side, holding Mason up by the bicep. His normally soft and gentle face is set hard with worry as he tries to keep Mason on his feet.

“What the hell is going on?” Waylon demands.

Jeremy glances down, face bunched with something like shame.

I suddenly get the feeling we’re missing something here. Something big.

I find Shawn’s dark gaze now focused on Waylon, creased in a mix of concern and something I can’t place.

Mason laughs bitterly. “Must be fucking nice.”

Waylon turns to fucking stone at his best friend’s sudden change in demeanor. “What?”

“Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” Jeremy says calmly to Mason. He gives Shawn a pointed look, and then the two are guiding Mason behind the bar and toward the beaded curtain.

Waylon’s frozen in place as the others leave, and I don’t miss how as soon as Mason’s gone, the whispers start. The nosy side-eyed looks our way. The pity hanging over the bar like a thick, itchy sweater.

“It’s September fourteenth,” someone mumbles.

“Oh, is that the day—”

Waylon whips around suddenly, eyes wide and unseeing as they dart around the room with a look I can’t place. He looks almost...panicked.

“Last call!” he yells so suddenly I flinch, his voice drowning out whatever that person was saying.

All eyes turn to him, wide and confused. There’s a little bit of guilt mixed in, too, as if they’ve all been caught doing something they’re not supposed to.

What the hell is going on?

“Does it sound like I’m fucking around?”