Page 64 of Almost Enough

“Drop it,” I mutter.

His boots shift against the concrete, settling beside the tire. “Rowan called. Said you’ve been ghosting him.”

I let out a short breath. “Been busy.”

“Right,” he drawls. “He also mentioned a redhead.”

My hand slips. Metal slices across my knuckles, a hot sting blooming instantly. “Fuck.”

I roll out from under the Chevy, blood already welling up across my knuckles. Jake hands me a clean rag without comment, watching as I press it to the cut.

“You gonna talk about it or just keep bleeding on the floor?” he asks.

I glare at him. “Nothing to talk about.”

“Sure.” He leans against the workbench, arms crossed. “That’s why you’re walking around like someone died and snapping at customers.”

I check the cut. It’s not deep enough for stitches. The physical pain is almost a relief compared to the ache in my chest.

“Whitley,” I say finally, the words rusty in my throat. “Violet’s best friend.”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. I know.”

“I fucked up.” I toss the bloody rag into the trash. “End of story.”

“What’d you do?”

“What I always do.” I flex my hand, testing the cut.

Jake lets out a low whistle.

I glare at him. “You done?”

“Not even close,” Jake says. “You’re miserable, which means you actually care. So why the hell aren’t you doing something about it?”

“Because she’s better off.”

“Ha! Bullshit.”

“You don’t even know her.”

“I know you,” Jake counters.

I turn back to the Chevy, desperate to end this conversation. “Don’t you have something to do? What the hell do I pay you for?”

“Stop changing the subject. What happened? You slept with her and then went cold?”

My jaw tightens, the accusation hitting too close to home.

He reads my silence perfectly. “Jesus, Beau. Classic.”

Yeah, maybe it is. Maybe it’s exactly what I do—get close, then pull the ripcord before anyone gets too comfortable. Before I get too comfortable.

Comfort leads to feelings. And feelings? They lead to pain. I’ve watched that cycle on repeat since I was old enough to understand it. It never fails. Love, trust, those delicate things are just paper-thin promises, waiting to tear at the slightest friction.

Whitley wasn’t supposed to get past the surface. She was supposed to be loud and annoying and temporary.

Instead, she got under my skin. She talked and asked too many questions. She sang off-key in the car and left half-finished coffee cups on every surface. And I loved every fucking second of it.