Haagen Dazs. We pretty much came to the conclusion that while, yeah, I should have told him about living in a trailer park, Tate was completely overreacting. But in light of his history with that ex, I guessed it was understandable. All except for the fact that he wouldn’t let me explain. And after almost a week of trying, I’d pretty much given up.
That didn’t make it hurt any less, though.
The intercom phone to my doorman rang, and Reagan ran to answer it. “Hi. Yep, I’ll be down in two seconds to grab it.”
I furled my eyebrows at her. “Who’s that?”
She swallowed, not quite looking at me, but grabbed her wallet. “Pizza.”
“I don’t want to eat,” I said, flopping onto my futon.
Reagan rolled her eyes. “You are eating. And after there’s something in your stomach, you, me, and Harrison are going out and getting you trashed.”
“I’ll compromise. I’ll take the pizza, but I am not going out.”
“Yeah, we’ll see,” she muttered, throwing my door open.
I grabbed my keys, following her downstairs. “I’m serious, Reagan. I don’t want to go anywhere.”
“Girl, you have got to get out of this apartment. It’s getting an old lady smell, and you’re not even in your mid-twenties yet. I’m a little worried that if I open your closet, I’ll find you hoarding cats or something.”
The elevator pinged, and when the doors open, Tate was inside, dressed in black pants and an electric blue button-down shirt—the same shirt he was wearing the first day we met. Panic swelled in my chest, and even though I wanted to run and hide, my feet were cemented to the ground.
And fuck me hard. There was a girl clinging to his arm. Not just any girl, either. Veronica. Well, Chrissy, actually. But whatever.Nothing could have prepared me for how much that fucking hurt. She leaned in close to Tate, tucking her clutch under her arm. His eyes locked with mine for only a second before he looked away. My heart damn near skipped a beat within that moment.
Her throaty chuckle skimmed beneath my skin and irritated worse than a breakout of freaking poison ivy.
Reagan rolled her eyes, lips pursed. “We’ll wait for the next one,” she snapped.
My whole body was suddenly flushed with heat, and I looked down at myself. My T-shirt had stains all over it. My sweatpants had holes everywhere. My hair was all ratty tangles piled on top of my head. Yeah, I was a friggin’ mess. And not even a hot one.
The elevator doors slid closed, and Reagan’s hand fell on my arm, rubbing in reassuring strokes. “Shelby,” she whispered, and I clamped my eyes shut.
“You get the pizza. I’ll go shower,” I whispered. Because, damn, she was right. If Tate was moving on already, maybe I should, too.
I didn’t wait for her response. I just turned and walked back to my room in a daze.
…
An hour and a half later, Harrison, Reagan, and I walked into the dark club. We flashed our IDs, and I immediately sidled up to the bar.
“What are you drinking tonight?” Reagan shouted over the music.
“Alcohol,” I grumbled.
Harrison sighed and Reagan snickered. “Done and done,” she said, leaning over the bar to get the bartender’s attention. Within a few minutes, I had a row of shots lined in front of me, and one by one, I slammed all three.
“Holy shit,” Reagan said. “Some of those were for us, y’know.”
I slapped a twenty onto the bar and signaled the bartender for another round. “Look,” I murmured. “I’ve got yoga pants on under these jeans. I am one bad moment away from hopping in a cab and falling back into a pit of chocolate and Netflix. You want to test me on this?”
Reagan rolled her eyes. “You do not have yoga pants—”
I lifted an eyebrow and popped the button of my jeans, revealing the cotton leggings beneath the waistband. Reagan went silent, passing a look to Harrison. “I stand corrected. And here I thought I was the overdramatic one.”
“You wanted me out. There better be a damn drink in my hands at all times.”
Reagan nodded and gestured again at our cute bartender. “And a whiskey sour, please.”
“And three waters,” Harrison added, only to be met with Reagan’s scowl. “Glare all you want. If we’re gonna be slamming drinks, at least hydrate between.”
“You don’t like whiskey,” I said to Reagan.
“Bitch, it’s for you. You want alcohol? You’ve got it.” She tossed my twenty back at me, and handed her card to the bartender as