Even though I don’t answer him, I catch him nodding in understanding from my peripheral vision. But, instead of further chastising me for reaching over the counter of his bar and pouring my own drink, he grabs the bottle from me and pours another, pouring one for himself, too, and that’s exactly what I need right now. Someone.

“He’s 25 years old.” I balk, downing my second shot. “I mean, who even gets married at 25?”

Harley says nothing, choosing instead to listen. And I thank God that he does. I don’t need someone trying to correct me, or argue. I want to vent—I need to let it all out—and the only person I have right now who will listen is Harley, and he does, so I continue. “Does he even know this woman?” I laugh once under my breath, shaking my head as I stare straight ahead at the shelves of liquor bottles lined up behind the bar. “Who the hell marries someone after knowing them for just a few months?”

I throw a hand in the air in exasperation, curious as to why Harley isn’t nearly as incredulous as I am. This whole thing is ridiculous. Why am I the only one who thinks so? And, at that thought, I swivel on my stool, gawping at him, watching as he casually sips his whiskey with little to no emotion, his eyes trained on the television overhead playing some English soccer game.

“Did you know about this?”

Slowly, his eyes flit to the side, and he carefully places his glass onto the counter as he turns to face me, albeit reluctantly. “Well, yeah.” He sighs, adding a casual shrug. “But, I mean, I am his best friend.”

“So am I!” I yell, slightly offended. “At least, I thought I was.”

“Yeah, but—” Harley stops to gauge me, hesitating momentarily. “I’ve never slept with the guy, Murph …”

I sigh heavily, my shoulders falling as I stare down into my empty glass. He’s right.

“I don’t know,” Harley continues. “He seems happy. Granted, I haven’t met the woman but from what he’s told me, she’s good for him. Maybe …” He trails off, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth and glancing away. I can tell he’s battling with his words, his clenched jaw working overtime.

“Maybe what?”

He finally meets my eyes again, and there’s a sadness within his gaze, a resignation of sorts as he sighs. “Maybe it’s time you let him go.” Before any more can be said, he stands from his stool and moves behind the counter to serve a customer who’s just walked in from the street. He offers me a sad smile as he pours beer into a frosted glass, but it’s a smile I can’t return. Because, once again, he’s right.

You know how they say if you love something you should let it go, and if it comes back to you then it’s yours, and if not, well then it was never meant to be? Well, I call bullshit on that. If you love something then hold on to it for dear life, because once it’s gone, it’s gone for good. And suddenly you’re left sad and alone in a bar on Main Street, wondering where it all went wrong, crying into your second glass of whiskey at four o’clock in the afternoon.