How does it fucking hurt this bad?

I turn around suddenly and finish off what’s left of my now slightly flat beer as the song draws to a close, and the crowd reaches decibel levels of insanity.

He deserves it too.

He really, really does.

Feeling eyes on me, it’s then that I remember I’m not alone. I haven’t been alone at all, and Waylon’s cousin, of all people, likely just saw every fucking emotion play out over my face as he ripped me apart with that song.

Shit shit shit.

Bracing myself to do whatever damage control is needed to ensure she’s not thinking exactly what she’s no doubt thinking, I plaster on what I hope is a look of indifference before meeting her gaze.

“Another?” she asks, dipping her chin toward my beer. Her face betrays nothing, which worries me even more.

When I must take too long to respond, she wordlessly takes the empty bottle from me and replaces it with another.

On stage, Mason announces they’re taking a break. There’s a loud thud, as if someone dropped something near a mic. I don’t trust myself to look back, so I don’t.

I mutter my thanks and proceed to wash down the lingering emotion, wondering just how exactly Ivy’s going to play this.

“Why are you here?”

I still, not so much at the question itself, but at her tone. It’s...soft. Curious.

Suspicious.

“I’m here because Mason invited me,” I tell her carefully.

Her forehead creases slightly, and I know immediately that’s not what she meant. But just as she goes to open her mouth and likely demand for something I’m not willing to give, a hand claps me on the back. “You made it!”

I stand and face Mason. Grinning, I tell him, “What the hell was that, man? You didn’t tell me you’re a fuckin’ rock star.”

He pulls me in for a quick bro hug. “Shut up.” He laughs, grinning wildly. Cheeks flushed, and blue eyes bright, it’s hard to imagine this is the same broken guy I got a glimpse of earlier.

“Seriously,” I say, shaking my head. “You guys are insanely good.”

He runs his fingers over the back of his head self-consciously. His mouth quirks up in a small smile. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

I’m sure he hears it all the time, too, and yet there’s a humble kind of sincerity underlying his words that tells me he truly appreciates the compliment.

“Fuck, it’s hot in here,” Mason says, sliding closer to the bar.