Chapter 31
THIRTY-ONE
Emmett
New Year’s Eve
“God damn,” I pant, resting my palm against my chest. Sitting up, I reach for my drink on the ground and hold it up to the TV screen ahead of me as the timer ticks down.
Five…
Four…
Three…
Two…
One…
“Happy new year,” I say as the ball drops and I tip the beverage into my mouth. Green apple pre-workout doesn’t quite have the same effect as champagne, but sitting alone in a gym on New Year’s Eve doesn’t necessarily have the same effect as being at a party, either.
Unlocking my phone, I’m met with a text from Rowan, including a selfie of her and my dad sitting on the couch together, the two of them wearing matching smiles. Virtual confetti pours from the top of the screen as it opens.
Ro: Happy new year!!!
Me: Happy new year.
Me: Thanks for not sending a pic kissing my dad.
I probably should have gone to Davis’s party tonight, or even gone over to hang out with Ro until Dad got home, but I wanted to be by myself, as pathetic as that sounds.
I’ve been okay; my hand is healed and I got myself out of the spiral that I was headed for, but I didn’t want to be around all of those people.
I’m not in the mood for a random hookup and I definitely don’t want to watch everyone around me pair off to kiss each other and make their promises for the new year.
I give the weight bench behind me an appreciative pat before taking the plates off and putting them back onto their rack.
I’ve made an effort to get back in here more often since I went drinking with Davis, because as much as I hate to admit it, he was right; I had lost weight.
I hadn’t realized until he’d mentioned it just how much looser my pants were sitting at my hips or how much more room there was in my shirts.
So any time that I think about Nash or Anna, I make myself come here.
I’m here a lot, and almost always after hours, because no one bothers me. Last week, someone snapped a bunch of photos of me and tried to sell them back to me – to which I replied, ‘Go ahead and post them. Make sure you tag me.’
I haven’t been back during business hours since, though, because I might hit someone if one more person asks me if Fowler Enterprise will be opening a winery to compete with Montgomery Estate.
The answer is no, and we don’t care about it because we aren’t in the wine business.
No, we aren’t competing with him. No, I don’t give a shit that he named his wine ‘black rose’ like the ones that he sent me months ago or like the single flower that is left sitting and crumbling to pieces in my dresser.
Okay, maybe I do.
I scrub a hand through my hair with a heavy sigh and toss my phone into my gym bag. I should get out of here.