I watch as he takes Jenny in his arms—the strong, beautiful arms that have held me, made me feel cherished with their warmth. The arms I’ve gripped in pleasure and passion more times that I can remember. He gathers her close to his chest, the chest I laid my cheek on just last night, lulled to sleep by the sound of his steadfast heartbeat.

And together, they sway.

I don’t feel the tears rise until they’re blurring my vision and streaming down my face. My throat constricts, and the purest of pain squeezes my chest like a cruel vise.

I can’t do this anymore.

I know it now. I can’t stand by and pretend to help him fight for her.

Because I want him to fight for me.

More than anything.

For him to want me—not just as a friend or a lover. But as his forever.

Like she is.

Jenny looks up into his eyes. Their expressions are tender as they speak, and I thank God I can’t hear the words. Then Stanton raises his hand to touch her face . . . and I squeeze my eyes closed, blocking the intimate gesture.

A moment later I’m heading for the door. Self-preservation compels me, Willie’s lyrics of love and regret chase me, but I don’t look back.

Outside, the air is moist, thick—I gulp it in with pathetic hiccups and seek the comfort of my own arms, wrapped around my waist.

“Sofia?”

Brent’s voice approaches from my left, coming closer as he calls my name again. I don’t try to hide my . . . sadness? That’s not a strong enough word. Devastation hits the nail on the head. I feel like a building that’s about to collapse, the foundation I built, the structure and support that I thought would keep me standing falling away beneath my feet. And Brent sees it all.

His head angles in sympathetic reflection, but what strikes me most is—he’s not surprised. Not even a little.

He sits on the sidewalk bench and pats his lap. “Looks like somebody needs a ride on the therapy train. Hop on. Tell Dr. Brent all about it.”

There’s no shame as I perch myself on his thighs.

“He doesn’t dance,” I whisper.

Brent nods slowly. Waiting for me to continue.

“But he’s dancing with her.”

The words sound completely ridiculous said out loud, but I don’t care. The dam breaks, and my face crumbles. “I thought I had a wall, you know? I didn’t think I’d be the woman who wanted more. I’m an idiot, Brent.”

A low chuckle reverberates through his chest. “You’re not an idiot, sweetheart—that designation belongs to the blind southerner you’re crying over.”

I raise my head and look into Brent’s forever kind blue eyes. He’s always reminded me of my brother Tomás. They share that same comforting attitude that makes you feel that anything coming their way, no matter how devastating, will be handled.

“How can he not know?” I ask. “Why can’t he see how hard this is for me?”

Brent brushes my long hair off my shoulders. “In fairness to Stanton, you’re a good actress. And . . . sometimes it’s hard for guys to read between the lines. To pick up on all the things that aren’t said. Some of us need it spelled out.”

Brent holds me for a few minutes more as I soak up his calm, making it my own. Then I drag my fingers under my eyes, wiping away the melting mascara that probably makes me look like a raccoon.

“Soph?” That voice comes from the shadows behind us, deep with worry. I feel him move closer, without turning to look. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Having all of Stanton’s attention, sensing his concern and knowing in my heart that he’d rain down hell in my defense—I admit it feels good. For a moment. But it’s only an emotional crumb. One that used to satisfy me, but now will only end up magnifying the emptiness. Leave me starving for all the things he doesn’t feel for me.

Clawing myself together, I stand from Brent’s lap and face him head-on. Stanton reaches out to touch me, but I step back. “I’m fine.”

“You’re obviously not. What the hell happened?”

I shake my head. “I don’t feel well.” That’s true, at least. “I want to go back to the house.”

“All right, I’ll—”

I step further back, bumping against the bench. “No. Not you.”

The thought of being in the closed space of a vehicle with him is horrifying. I need more time to collect myself, so I’m not reduced to a quivering mass clinging to his leg, begging him to love me.

Wouldn’t that be attractive?

Confusion displaces the concern clouding his eyes. “But . . .”

“I’ll drive her.”

We all turn to the door of the bar, where tiny, blond, and perfect Jenny Monroe stands beside her fiancé. I didn’t realize we’d drawn an audience. And although she’s not exactly my favorite person at the moment, I’ll take her.

“Thank you.”

Brushing past Stanton, I follow Jenny as she fishes keys from the purse slung across her shoulder, walking briskly to the parking lot.

Stanton doggedly trails us. “Hey! Just wait one damn—”

“Go back to the bar, Stanton,” Jenny calls. “Have a beer with JD and talk about how y’all are gonna keep your brother from takin’ his clothes off.”

In a conspiratorial tone, she tells me, “Carter tends to get overheated when he’s drunk, and his nudist tendencies come out. The idiot’ll be bare ass by midnight.”