DAMIEN
Macey wanted to have kids. s**t. Kids.
My chest tightened, a sudden, panicked weight that made my hands shake on the wheel. Why the f**k was she telling me this? Did I give her the impression that we were serious? That we were—what, in some kind of plan-for-the-future? Because if I did, I definitely didn’t mean to.
I gripped the steering wheel harder. My mind raced.
Fuck me. I was scared. Scared of…everything. Scared of commitment, scared of letting someone in, scared of failing. Maybe Zinna was right. Commitment wasn’t my thing. Not really. Not now. Maybe never.
I didn’t want to sit with it, didn’t want to think too long, so I drove. I drove straight to the bar. No home, no contemplation, just gas, engine hum, and the promise of oblivion in a glass.
I called Marion on
