BooksBarbecue
Back Where There's A Will
Chapters (39)
  1. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  2. PROLOGUE
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. Interlude
  37. Acknowledgements
  38. Content Warning
  39. About the Author

The guy who makes me want to fight—who makes me believe I stand a chance. The person who makes me want to stay, when there’s no guarantee that one day, when I go to reach for him, I won’t just find empty air.

“Waylon?”

Blinking, I look up to find Jeremy standing only feet away. Mason’s on the floor between us, wheezing into the carpet with each breath he has no choice but to take, and there’s something just so fucking ridiculous about all this, that I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up from my throat.

Jeremy’s achingly familiar eyes widen, and from my periphery, I see Shawn push away from the wall to approach us.

I take a step back. “I’m sorry,” I say, still laughing. My eyes are on fire. “I just...I can’t...”

Jesus, look at us. Jeremy lost his twin fucking sister, and here’s Mason and me, two fucked up assholes, making it all about us.

Shawn joins Mason on the floor, dropping down next to him and murmuring something in his ear. He calls for Jeremy, before casting a quick, pointed look just behind me.

“Get him out of here.”

Something about that sentence has me laughing even harder.

I can’t stop.

I can’t fucking stop.

It’s like Mason tore open a wound I forgot was still healing. Exposing me to pain I didn’t realize I’ve been numbing myself to for years. The grief I couldn’t let myself feel, not when Mason was so adamantly in denial.

“I wish it was you.”

Well, guess what, man—

Me too. Me fucking too.

33

33

Will Foster

Waylon paces the length of the bar, back and forth, back and forth.

He’s got a bottle of some whiskey I’ve never heard of wrapped up in his fist, and I wish I could say I tried harder to stop him from drinking it. I wish I could say I tried at all.

Shame eats away at my insides, but I welcome it. I should have done more. I should have done anything but stand back and watch blankly as Waylon lifted the bottle to me in cheers, eyes cold and challenging. Sealing our fate with the first drop of whiskey to touch his lips.

It’s quiet upstairs, not that I really give a shit how Mason’s doing right now. Not when the person before me—the guy who is supposed to be his best friend—is taking all the progress he’s made these last few weeks and incinerating it in a bourbon-fueled blaze.

Sure, I get it—in theory. Denial is a powerful drug, and once it wears off, the agony ...

It’s devastating. Earth-shattering.

Acknowledging a loss like this after years of pushing it away, shoving it down under heaps and heaps of hope...never having any sort of concrete closure.