“Yeah. From work,” I say, leaving it at that.
She clearly doesn’t recognize me. And while it might sting my ego a bit—ultimately, that’s okay.
A lot of people don’t recognize me without the shades and a big ass DJ booth set up around me.
“His wife, Adrianna, is one of my best friends,” she explains, and the smile that follows is genuine.
I can’t believe it.
My boy Nathan Thorn—the same guy who used to close down clubs with me at four in the morning, who lived on adrenaline and bad decisions—is inside that house, celebrating a new baby.
The realization lands like a sucker punch to the gut.
Guys like us don’t do this.
We don’t get this.
Not the house. Not the lights. Not the family.
We burn too hot.
Move too fast.
Leave too much wreckage behind.
And yet—here he is.
Living the dream.
And me?
I feel like a damn outsider.
Like a beggar staring through a window at something I didn’t even know I wanted until it was right in front of me.
My grip tightens on the box.
This wasn’t part of the plan.
But then—she brushes past me slightly as we reach the steps, her shoulder grazing my arm, and just like that, the noise in my head quiets.
Hilary.
Linda.
Sunshine.
Whatever the hell I’m supposed to call her.
Walking beside her—easy, natural, like it’s nothing—makes something shift.
Like maybe life isn’t as far out of reach as I’ve been telling myself.
Which is insane.
Because I don’t know her.
She sure as shit doesn’t know me.