all the way into the earth and never emerge. I’d expected Tex to be pissed at me, but I didn’t realize how deeply I’d hurt him.
I’d thought I was the one who relied on Tex—the one following him around like a lost puppy, clinging onto his every word, gunning my bike in whatever direction he chose. But the way he was talking about us, it sounded like he needed me just as badly.
How the fuck was I supposed to respond to that? Any words I tried to string together got trapped in the lump in my throat. And if I started explaining myself, there was a good chance I’d end up spilling how I really felt about him—and if I did that, I could lose our friendship.
That was one sacrifice I was unwilling to make.
“I know,” I said finally. I crouched in the sand, because suddenly I didn’t trust my knees to hold me up, and I pushed the palms of my hands into my eyes. “I know. I was stupid. But it’s like you said—can’t change the past. I’m just trying to move forward. Trying to be a better person.”
“Goddammit, Jazz, you punk,” Tex said hoarsely.
Then he gripped the back of my neck hard, in that way he always did when he was overcome by some emotion he couldn’t quite express, some weird mix of frustration and affection. It was like he wanted to hug me and shake me at the same time, and the rough way he held me by the scruff of my neck was an acceptable middle ground between the two. I pretended to hate it, but it was always a comforting touch.
Tex pulled me to my feet. “Get up. Let’s finish our tacos.”
Tex
Jazz staggered to his feet unsteadily.
I felt as off balance as he looked. I hadn’t intended to say those things to Jazz—because really, what good could it do? There wasn’t anything he could say that would fix the past three years. It would’ve been easier to just fall back into our old patterns, and my hurt would’ve faded eventually. But Jazz always knew how to push my buttons and bring my emotions to the surface.
At my side, Jazz scrubbed his hand roughly over his eyes. His brow was furrowed, and his lips were turned downward in a slight frown. His jaw was beginning to swell slightly where I’d decked him. I felt guilty, looking at it. We’d both grown beyond that type of youthful roughhousing. We were adults, we didn’t need to resort to shoving each other around to solve our problems. I was struck by the sudden urge to swing my arm around his neck and pull him close to me, ruffle his hair, apologize, and tell him it’d all be fine in a day or so.
But I couldn’t promise that.
I felt raw, exposed. I’d gotten used to the everyday numbness of life without Jazz. Having him back was wonderful, and painful, like rebreaking a bone to heal it properly. Like I had to face all the hurt I’d felt when he left all over again.
Why had it bothered me so much when he’d asked me about finding an old lady?
It made me feel like a failure, I guess, like I wasn’t the person he’d expected me to be. Like everyone else in the club had figured out how to share their lives with someone else, but I just… Couldn’t. I’d never been able to open up to a woman, not really, and every woman I’d dated had figured that out and left me behind. And those breakups had hurt, but that pain was nothing like the pain of losing my best friend.
I didn’t have anyone else. Just Jazz. When he asked me if I had an old lady, it was like he wanted to pawn me off already. And I’d just gotten him back.
Did he not need our friendship as badly as I did?
I’d always thought we’d be at each other’s sides perpetually. But maybe after his time away in prison, he was tired of being stuck with me. Maybe it wasn’t just that he’d changed—maybe he wanted us to change, too. And after three years of sleepless nights, following my thoughts into black holes, I’d never once considered that.
We walked back up the stairs back to Fishhead’s without a word between us. Half the ice in my margarita had melted. I took a long drink of it anyway, savoring the warmth of the tequila. The bartender raised her eyebrows at