RYDER:
8:00 a.m.
My head was pounding with the kind of dull ache that only cheap whiskey and unresolved tension could conjure. My tongue felt like sandpaper, my mouth dry enough to swallow dust. I sat up slowly on Phoenix’s couch, rubbed the back of my neck, and tried to remember how many drinks I’d had last night.
Too many.
But not enough to forget her.
The apartment was quiet. Still.
I stood, stretched, and wandered into her kitchen. The fridge groaned when I opened it, practically mocking me with its contents—three boxes of questionable takeout, a half-full bottle of hot sauce, and a few waters shoved into the back.
Figures.
I grabbed a bottle and twisted the cap off, chugging it like it was going to fix something. It didn’t. Still, I felt a little steadier. A little more like m
