43. Seth
43
SETH
I ’m sprawled on the couch, a bottle of bourbon half-empty on the coffee table, the amber liquid catching the dim light from the lamp. The ice in my glass has long since melted, diluting the drink, but I don’t care. My head’s a mess, and the bourbon’s doing its best to untangle it. Or maybe it’s just making it worse. Who knows?
The conversation with Abbie earlier plays on a loop in my mind. Her hesitation, the way she looked at each of us—Corey, Donovan, me—like she was trying to determine which one of us she wanted. Or if she wanted all of us. Hell, I’d share her if it meant I could keep her in my life. I’m not the kind of guy who gets tied up in knots over a woman, but Abbie? She’s different.
My phone is vibrating on the table, and I glance over at it. Corey’s name flashes on the screen. I let it go to voicemail. I’m not in the mood to talk to him right now. Not when I’m still trying to figure out how the hell I ended up here, nursing a drink and thinking about a woman who’s got me twisted in ways I didn’t think were possible.
The doorbell rings, and I groan, dragging myself off the couch. I’m not expecting anyone, and the last thing I want is some random interruption. I swing the door open, and there’s Donovan, looking as put-together as ever, despite the late hour.
"You look like shit," he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation, his boots leaving faint marks on my pristine hardwood floor. I make a mental note to have my cleaning service deal with that tomorrow.
"Thanks. You're a real charmer." I close the door with more force than necessary and follow him into the living room, where the dim lighting probably does make me look worse than I feel.
He picks up the bourbon bottle, inspecting the label with the scrutiny of someone who knows his liquor. "Good choice. Mind if I join you?" His eyes catch mine, and I notice the concern beneath his casual demeanor.
"Help yourself." I flop back onto the couch, my jacket riding up uncomfortably as I see him grab a glass from the bar cart and pour himself a drink. The crystal catches the light as he tips the bottle, and I wonder if he's here on his own accord or if Corey sent him.
Donovan sits down across from me in my leather armchair, swirling the bourbon in his glass like he's at a fancy tasting instead of my living room at this ungodly hour. "So, you're just sitting here, drinking alone, thinking about her?" There's no judgment in his voice, just knowing curiosity.
"Maybe." I take a sip from my glass, the burn of the alcohol doing little to distract me from the way her face keeps floating through my mind. The expensive bourbon tastes like nothing more than regret at this point.
“You’re not the only one, you know.” His expression is unreadable. “Corey’s pacing his house like a caged animal, and I’m… well, let’s just say I’m not handling it much better than you are.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You? Mr. Cool, Calm, and Collected? I find that hard to believe.”
He smirks, but there’s no humor in it. “Yeah, well, she’s got a way of getting under your skin. I didn’t expect it, but here we are.”
We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the situation hanging between us.
“You’d really share her?” Donovan finally asks, his voice rough.
I don’t hesitate. “If it’s the only way to keep her, yeah. I would.”
He nods, like he expected that answer. “Same here. But we’re going to have to decide how to make it work. All of us. It’s not exactly… conventional.”
“Since when have we ever been conventional?” I counter, a wry smile tugging at my lips.
He chuckles, raising his glass in a toast. “Fair point. Here’s to figuring it out, then.”
I clink my glass against his, the sound echoing in the quiet room. We drink in silence, the bourbon doing little to ease the tension but at least giving us something to focus on.
“You think she’ll go for it?” Donovan asks after a while.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I’m not going to ask her to choose. That’s not fair to her.”
He nods again, his expression thoughtful. “Agreed. We’ll just have to wait and see what she decides.”
We sit there for a while longer, the conversation drifting to other topics—work, the bar, anything but Abbie. But she’s still there, in the back of my mind, and I know she’s not going anywhere anytime soon.
My phone shakes on the coffee table, cutting through the heavy silence Donovan and I had settled into. I peer at the screen—Corey’s name pops up, along with a group text that includes Donovan. I tap it open, and Donovan’s phone pings almost simultaneously.
Abbie wants us to meet her at her apartment tonight. We need to talk, come to a resolution.
I read it twice, then look up at Donovan, who’s already staring at his phone, his brow furrowed. He looks up, meeting my gaze.
“Well,” he says, setting his glass down with a soft clink. “Guess we’re not done with this circus after all.”
“Guess not. You think she’s made a decision?”
“Doubt it,” Donovan says, standing and stretching. “If she had, she wouldn’t need all three of us there. She’d just pick one and be done with it.”
“True.” I shoot a quick reply to Corey.
On my way.
“You driving, or am I?”
“I’ll drive,” Donovan says, already heading for the door. “You’ve had enough bourbon to make a cop suspicious.”
“Fair point.” I reach for my jacket and follow him out, the cool night air hitting me like a slap. It’s a short drive to her place, but the tension in Donovan’s truck is thick enough to cut with a knife. Neither of us says much, the weight of what’s coming hanging over us like a storm cloud.
When we pull up to her apartment, Corey’s already there, leaning against his car with his arms crossed. He looks up as we approach, his expression unreadable.
“You two ready for this?” he asks.
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. “You?”
Corey shrugs. “No idea. But we’ll find out soon enough.”
Donovan claps him on the shoulder. “Let’s get this over with. The suspense is killing me.”