My next step faltered when I looked up and caught Graham watching me.

“What are you doing?”

I let my eyes dart around us, then said in an unsure tone, “Walking . . .”

“You checked your phone every three minutes during the rehearsal, and twice while we were driving. I know what phone that is, Deac. Can’t you keep it in your pants for a couple nights, for Knox?”

A disbelieving huff burst from my chest. “A couple nights? I haven’t gotten laid in—” I cut off quickly, and tried to think back to when the last time had been. “It’s been almost a week.”

Graham’s surprise didn’t last. “Doesn’t matter. It’s Knox’s rehearsal dinner and wedding. Put the phone away until after the wedding. Besides, you’ll probably find a girl there tomorrow.”

I followed him toward the warehouse, but I was already itching to check my phone again.

This thing with the journal couldn’t go on forever; it had already gone on long enough without someone else taking it. And I needed to know who it belonged to.

I owned two phones: one for family and friends, another I affectionately called “Candy” for the girls who fell in and out of my bed. It made things easier for me. I didn’t want to have to worry about who might be calling when my personal phone rang. On the other hand, Candy was full of contacts that usually began with “Don’t Answer!” and was a way for girls to feel like they could get in touch with me whenever they wanted, but really only could if I wanted them to. I’d been called an asshole for it on more than one occasion . . . I thought I was a genius.

Since I’d put the number to Candy in the journal that morning, I’d been stressing over whether or not I would ever hear from the owner of the journal. Considering how many women in Thatch had Candy’s number, I figured there were three options: She already had my number and would know who had been writing to her as soon as she entered it into her phone—and it would all be over then. She would already have my number, still contact me, and it would be over once the message popped up from a Don’t Answer contact. Or we somehow wouldn’t know each other, and this would continue . . . that is, if she decided to contact me at all.

But if I didn’t hear from her by the next afternoon, I was going back to Mama’s to look for the damn journal before getting ready for the wedding.

Charlie’s car came into view then, as we turned into the alley of the warehouse, and my stress over hearing from the girl subsided as something else filled me.

For a year and a half, all I had wanted was to tell Charlie exactly what I thought of her—what I thought of how everyone treated her. I’d thought it would feel like a weight was lifted once I finally did.

I’d been wrong.

Ever since she’d shut the door four days ago, and I’d left her car only halfway fixed, a nagging feeling had consumed me. I’d told myself at first that it was only because I was waiting for Jagger’s call—because I knew it would come. But as the days passed, I knew that wasn’t it.

It was the look on Charlie’s face after I’d finished laying into her.

Acknowledgment. Agreement. Defeat.

Her expression played through my mind on repeat, and each time I saw it, I felt like even more of a bastard.

Guilt swirled through me when we walked into the warehouse, and I looked over to see Charlie finishing setting up the table. She had her head down as people poured inside, trying to be invisible as she always did. When she glanced up and caught me watching her, she froze.

Her blue eyes pierced mine as the same emotions that had been haunting me flashed across her face.

Maybe if I hadn’t been so damn worried about some girl committing suicide, I wouldn’t have lashed out at her. Or maybe that was inevitable. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt like shit for doing it if I hadn’t been reading some other girl’s deep thoughts all week. They were making me have feelings. I didn’t like it.

“Look who’s here,” Graham said under his breath. “Have you talked to her?”

“Who?” I asked without looking away from the girl across the room.

“Charlie,” he hissed. “Have you talked to her since last weekend at Mama’s?”

Yeah, it was no question that I fucked up if I’d refused to tell Graham about my run-in with Charlie on Monday.

“Uh, n—”

“Deaton!”

I looked down as Keith came running through the room toward us, and held out my hand for him. “Hey, kid!”

“Guess who I am!” he shouted.

“Thousand bucks,” Graham whispered. I didn’t have to be looking at him to know he was smirking.

“He’s funny,” I murmured back defensively, then bent down to get on Keith’s level. “Hmm, I don’t know. Are you Iron Man again?”

“No!” Keith said, and bounced on the balls of his feet. “Guess again.”

“Spider Man? Magneto?” When he continued to shake his head, I said, “I’m running out of ideas here.”

“I’m Mommy’s hot dog tonight!” he said as he puffed up his chest, the cheesiest grin covered his face.

“Oh gosh. It’s hot date, buddy.”

My head snapped up at Charlie’s voice, so close now to where we were, but she was staring at Keith, and very clearly avoiding looking at me.

“That’s what I said!” Keith said in exasperation.

“Charlie,” I murmured as I stood.

She tried to smile, but it fell flat. That was when I noticed she was shaking. “Come on, it’s time to go.”

“Go? You’re not staying for dinner?”

Charlie looked up at Graham at his question, and shook her head firmly once. “No, I was just helping your parents set up in here. Keith and I are going out—”

“Yeah! ’Cause I’m her hot date.”

“Right,” she said with a flash of a smile, and ran a hand through Keith’s wild hair.

“You don’t have to leave because you’re not in the wedding,” Graham said. “I think Knox and Harlow wanted you here. We all want you here.”

Charlie pulled Keith closer to her, and took a step toward the doors. Her head tilted slightly and her eyes narrowed like she was studying Graham. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, unsure. “No, it’s fine. We already have plans.”