Not even a flinch. It’s like there’s a tunnel before me, but no matter how fast I run, I can’t reach the other side. I can’t reach him. Waylon. The boy I feel like I’ve been chasing my whole life.

Hell, I think at this point, I’d almost prefer the skin-crawling laughter from upstairs. I don’t even think he realized he was crying.

But not anymore. Now there’s just...

Nothing.

Emptiness.

The guy before me now is not the guy who was smiling at me from behind the bar when I first arrived, eyes dancing with wicked intent as we faced off with one another. He is not the guy I spent hours holding and kissing and touching all morning and afternoon yesterday.

One step forward, ten steps back—story of our fucking lives.

“She’s dead.”

I blink at the unexpected sound of his voice. It’s flat. Distant. Hardly recognizable.

He’s no longer pacing, but standing frozen in the middle of the room. His fingers flex at his side, and the ones around the neck of the bottle tremble from where he has it hovering, the lip inches from his mouth.

“I thought—” He rapidly shakes his head, voice cracking. “I’ve known this. I’ve known this—Why? Why is this...happening? Why am I...?” More head shaking as his voice fades.

Fuck.

I take a step forward. “Waylon—”

“You should go.”

Halting mid-step, I watch as he tips his head back and takes a long pull of the whiskey. Not even a hint of a grimace. Like it’s water.

Or maybe he’s just that numb. That desperate for the fire to scorch it all away.

He turns suddenly, heading toward the back corner, toward the stage. His boots scuff along the wood as they eat up the distance. He passes me by without even sparing a glance.

My eyes slide shut as I try to find the words that will make this better. The words that will stop this train from completely derailing.

When I turn around, I find him white-knuckling the TouchTunes machine. His profile is to me as he faces the screen, skin lit up blue as he bows his head forward. Black hair tumbles over his forehead and he’s got an unlit cigarette propped behind his ear. His flannel now lays in a heap on the floor, leaving his inked arms to now flex prominently as he grips the sides of the jukebox.

While he’s distracted, I make my way over to the end of the bar and swipe the whiskey he’s finally parted his lips from. Pulling out a stool, I take a seat, squeezing the bottle to my chest like I could absorb it. Erase it from existence. Like I’m a blackhole, and I’m what’s sucking away everything bad in his life. All the ugly and hurtful.

If only.