Chapter 16
COLTON
Miranda doesn’t open the door until the fourth knock. By the time she does, whatever she sees on my face makes her expression fall. I can’t tell if I should laugh or cry based on that look alone, but I refuse to break out here, in this hallway.
She steps back and opens her arms. No questions. No hesitation.
Instantly, I melt into her, feeling like something held together by thread—the kind that finally snaps the second it’s touched. Her arms wrap tight around me, steadying me, giving me everything I need right now.
Before I left, I sent Halle a text, letting her know that I was going to Miranda’s and needed a minute.
She immediately texted back asking about the fight and about why I quit.
I gave her nothing, just told her we’d talk when I got back, because how the fuck am I supposed to explain something that I don’t even fully understand.
Miranda pulls back just enough to look at me, her eyes scanning, assessing. Then she moves, letting me in and closing the door behind us, gathering the things I need before I can even ask.
“Colt,” she calls, reappearing and putting the meds into my hand, “you look like shit.”
A weak chuckle leaves my lips, pulling at my jaw, as I try to give her a smile and flinch.
“Me? Babe, I’ve never been better,” I say, trying to convince myself that that’s the truth.
Her eyes narrow, not buying it for a second, then she goes into the kitchen.
I sink into her couch while the TV flickers to life in front of me, some random show filling the quiet. I stare at it like if I focus hard enough, it’ll pull me in and drown everything else out.
Miranda returns, handing me a bottle of water. “Take those now.” Once I swallow the pills, she gives me the ice pack that was in her other hand. “Ice your face for a bit—you definitely need it. Then, you’re going to tell me why you look like you got into a bar fight and lost.”
I shrug my shoulders noncommittally.
“No, Colt, I think the fuck not. Time to spill the tea. It’s not that I don’t love having you here, but you look terrible and sad. So…” She gestures with her hands for me to start talking.
Taking a deep breath I let it all out. Every single detail comes out, starting with the night of the bonfire at the beginning of summer. Once I start, it doesn’t stop. Once I finish, it feels like a weight has been lifted off my chest, leaving me raw and drained, mentally and physically.
She sits there, staring at me, unsure of what to say.
Then the look shifts to something close to pity and I can’t take that.
“Say something,” I snap.
Her brows lift. “About what?”
“I have no clue. Something? Fuck…Anything.” My hands come up, frustrated, useless.
“Tell me I imagined it. Tell me I pushed too far. Tell me I’m wrong.
Tell me why the hell he said that to me and let me walk away like I was nothing.
Tell me why the fuck he gets to do this and I’m just supposed to sit here and take it. ”
Silence stretches between us.
“I think…” she says carefully. “Whatever’s going on with him has nothing to do with you not being enough, Colt. I’d be willing to bet it’s not personal at all.”
A humorless laugh slips out, my jaw aching slightly. “Yeah? Well it felt pretty fucking personal.”
She just shakes her head, giggling to herself, already turning toward her office down the hallway. “I’ll start digging into that anonymous number. I haven’t gotten shit yet, but if there’s something to find, I’ll find it.”
The door to her office clicks shut, leaving me alone with the hum of the TV and the pounding in my head.
The silence drags on around me, and it all plays back, over and over, like a scene I can’t escape. The way he looked at me. The way his fist felt against my face.
I knew it was coming but I had to push.
I just wanted him to feel a fraction of the hurt I was feeling. I know it’s petty, but I’d hoped that maybe he would see that and change his tune. I know he wants me; I felt it—saw it in every glance, every second he let himself slip.
But he wouldn’t even look at me. He let me leave because it was easier to let me go than to be honest.
I’m sure as fuck not enough to make him risk the lie he’s hiding behind.
Cedarbrook’s golden boy is too busy trying to be everything for everyone that I can’t even be anything for him and that fucking hurts.
I sink deeper into the couch, pressing the ice harder against my jaw until the cold starts to numb the pain.
My eyes fall shut, and for a second, I let myself disappear into it.
It’s been two days now, and I can tell Miranda is annoyed that we have yet to find anything on our anonymous texter. Every lead ends in a road block, but she’s giving it her all.
I ignore absolutely everyone and everything—every buzz my phone makes, the calls from family who care, or texts that follow. I’m not ready to give them the answers they want yet. Apparently, Halle has resorted to texting Miranda, based on the small bits of her texts that I’ve read.
Miranda pulls a pan out of the cabinet, causing another one to fall out onto the floor, creating a crashing sound that pulls me out of my already-fitful sleep. I sit up and rub my eyes and look over at her.
“Shit, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you up. I could tell you needed sleep, so I was trying to let you. It’s late. Why don’t you go back to sleep and we can get up tomorrow and talk. Okay?”
I don’t fall back asleep immediately, though. Instead choose to listen to her move around. “Hey, do you care if I crash for one more day then head home tomorrow? I need to figure out what to do since I’m out of a job.”
She agrees to let me stay and leaves me to my thoughts. Pulling out my phone, I stare at the screen, like it might decide for me.
One text. That’s all it would take. I know he’d fucking read it.
My thumb hovers over the Send button, and I stare at the screen and the empty text thread between Rhett and I.
Me:
If this is the life you choose, then you're a fucking coward. I hope you know you'll eventually run out of places to run away to.
I read the words over and over, feeling like it’s not enough and might be too much all at once.
My chest tightens. Then our fight replays in my head—his willingness for me to be nothing—and it’s enough.
Her voice startles me from over my shoulder. “Bitch, no, you’re not texting him. Delete that shit now.”
Pressing down on the Back button, I watch every word disappear. Then I toss my phone to the floor, and cover my face with the blanket in an attempt to go back to sleep.
“Alright,” Miranda says, clapping her hands, and coming to stand in front of the couch. “This is officially depressing as fuck.”
I groan, pulling the blanket over my head. “Go away.”
“Nope. Not happening. I can’t watch this train wreck anymore.”
The blanket disappears from my body.
I squint up at her. “I hate you.”
She smiles, thankful to get some kind of reaction out of me. “You love me.”
Glancing up at her, I give her a puzzled look before looking at my own chest. “It definitely doesn’t feel like love right now, I just checked. Doesn’t look like it either.”
“Get up.”
“Mir.”
“Get. Your. Ass. Up. We’re going out.”
A laugh escapes me. “Absolutely not.”
“Yes. Absolutely yes. You’ve had time to mope, and now you’ve reached the limit. We haven’t found shit on the anonymous texter, besides that it’s a burner phone in Cedarbrook, so I’m pissed. We’re both going to blow off steam and have fun.”
“Wow. How supportive of you. You shouldn’t have.”
“I am supportive,” she shoots back. “I let you rot on my couch, and now I’m making you get off it. I know you. You probably don’t care as much as you did yesterday anyway,” she challenges.
When I don’t respond, she narrows her eyes. “Five minutes, or I’m picking your outfit.”
My brow kicks up. “That’s a threat. I’ve seen what you call a going out outfit.”
She winks at me. “You bet your ass it is.” Then she walks down the hall to find outfits for herself and options for me.
“Five minutes,” I mutter, pushing myself up.
Within thirty minutes, music fills the apartment, loud and bright—something that keeps my thoughts from straying too far. She hands me a drink like it’s a lifeline I was unaware I needed.
“Chug.”
I stare at the shimmering blue liquid she’s holding out to me. “Fuck no. I’m not chugging that.”
She quips back, “You are if you want to survive the night.”
Fuck, this is gonna suck…
Tipping my head back, I take a big swig. The burn hits fast, settling low in my chest.
I try to hand the cup back to her, but she pushes it back against my chest. “Again.”
“What the fuck? Are you trying to kill me?”
“No, just trying to make you fun again.”
Another big swig. It goes down easier this time. By the time we’re actually getting ready, there’s a light buzz flowing through me, softening the edges of everything I’ve been holding in. Miranda digs through my clothes, tossing options around until she finds something she approves of.
“This.” She holds out a black T-shirt to me.
I eye it skeptically, before cutting my eyes over to her. “That’s… actually normal. What’s the catch?”
“It’s a good choice. No catch. Just wear it.”
I wait for her to bring out some questionable fashion choices, like she does for the clubs at college, but she never does.
Thank fuck for small wins today.
Once we’re both dressed, she pushes me out of the house, arm in mine, before we get in the car and head to the bar.
I assumed by the way she wanted to let loose, that we would be going to a club with flashing lights and bass pounding out the speakers. Instead, the dive bar sitting in front of me is just … normal.
My shoulders sag in relief, staring up at the neon sign. Miranda takes that as a sign of hesitation, grabbing my wrist and pulling me across the parking lot and inside before I can second-guess it.
“Drinks. We need a fucking drink first.”
I nod, letting her drag me to the bar. She orders us both beers and shots that look fruity as fuck. I prefer whiskey and she knows it, but that alone tells me she picked what she did for a reason.
We clink our shot glasses together, tapping them against the bar before gulping it down. The shot burns differently than the drinks from earlier, causing my nostrils to flare and lips to pucker.
“Better?” she asks.
“No. You just tried to kill me with a lemon drop shot. That’s evil as fuck. You know I hate those things.” I shudder.
She just laughs and gestures for me to follow her, finding a high top in the back corner so we can watch people.
“I figured this would be a lot better than any club that we’ve gone to around Mizzou.”
I chuckle, cracking a slight smile. “You’d be right about that.”
We both take sips of our beers, settling into the stools.
Finally in a talkative mood, we sit there, chatting about school, her boy issues, old shenanigans…Anything that’s not Rhett Thornwood.
Even sitting here laughing and drinking with Miranda, two towns over, my thoughts still go back to him—about what he said and how I had to walk away.
I eye the different guys around the bar, but no one looks remotely good to me.
They don’t compare to Rhett—to Cedarbrook’s charming golden boy.
Because even here, surrounding myself in distractions, I can’t escape him.
No one compares.
No one even comes close.