Page 96 of Wildflowers & Whiskey

“Like what?” I act as nonchalantly as I can, like I am not breaking inside.

“Like the song.” She meets my eyes then, and she does look sorry—genuinely. “I'm not saying you meant something by coming up there. Maybe you didn't. But it felt like… It looked like—” She stops again. Pushes her hair back. “I care about you, Colt. I really do. And I value what we have more than I know how to say, but I am also going back to London soon, so please… Let’s just not make this awkward between us.”

Everything in the room goes quiet and still all over again, the voice in my head screaming so loudly that I cannot focus on anything else.

I care about you.

But I’m going.

The same bullshit I’ve had all my life.

That familiar burn crawling up my chest—anger, upset, insecurity. All tangled up so tight that my breathing doesn’t feel natural. I let my eyes close, focusing on my lungs expanding under my ribcage, and when they open again, it’s like I am hit with every emotion. I can’t help but lash out.

“I get it,” I say, but I don’t. Not really. “I ain’t good enough for you. You can just say it instead of hiding behind all this ‘friends’ bullshit.”

Her face tightens. “Colt, that’s not—”

“It ain't?” The words feel like they're coming from somewhere I can't quite reach. “Maybe next time you don't wanna lead someone on, don't look right at ’em while you're singing a damn love song.”

Now she looks confused. Not just a little, genuinely thrown, acting as though I just switched languages on her. “I wasn’t,” she says. “I was lookin’ at everyone. You just… saw what you wanted to see.”

That lands for two seconds, before I shove it away. Not wanting it to settle any deeper.

“Yeah.” A short sound that doesn't quite make it to a laugh. “That's me, ain't it? Always reading’ it wrong. Too much. Too sensitive.” My voice drops to something barely above the bar noise. “Too damn broken for anyone to want to stick around.”

“Colt—”

But I'm already moving. Pushing through the crowd. Finding the bar and dropping onto a stool because my legs need somewhere to go.

“Whiskey,” I mutter. “On the rocks.”

She’s leaving. Like everyone else I come to care about. I just don’t know why I thought she’d be any different.

The glass hits the counter, and I knock it back in one gulp, letting the burn track all the way down. Praying it numbs some of the pain inside of me.

It doesn’t.

I sit there a minute, letting the noise of the bar crash over me, waiting for my chest to remember how to breathe right.

What a fucking mess.

The drive into town feels longer than usual. My mind should be focused on the road; I suppose it was subconsciously, given I made it here alive, but everything from last night is playing on loop, and I can’t find the stop button.

I know it was bad last night when I woke up to a message from Dr. Palmer telling me to come in today after a series of embarrassing, oversharing drunk texts. Clearly, she thought it was urgent to me today. She never usually has a free space at such short notice.

I texted Dad telling him about the change, asking for the day to myself. Really, I just wanted to spend the day avoiding Maeve. I was successful for the most part. Up until I got in the truck, when she saw me across the yard, moving quickly toward me. I looked right at her, eyes locked and all, and still got in the truck, pulling out of the drive as fast as I could. Just ignored her completely.

Dick move. I know it was. But I couldn't sit there and look at her while she tries to be gentle with me about all the ways she can't stay or feel the same way. So, I left. Drove into town earlier than I needed to, killed time over eggs at the diner on Main Street until they made my stomach worse than the anxiety already had.

And now I'm here, in Dr. Palmer's office.

This place has become something close to comfort. Warm and quiet, with that particular kind of stillness that feels intentional to ensure clients are at ease. Bookshelves along one wall. Two chairs angled toward each other, not quite facing, because she told me once that full face-to-face chairs feel confrontational for a lot of people.

“So, how you feeling today?” she says.

I scoff, “How long you got?”

She gives me a stern look, the one I know she feels comfortable giving to me as a client to say, “come on, cut the shit.”