Page 3 of Hate You Up Close

His face instantly fills with shock, which is exactly the reaction I was expecting. He rubs a palm against his cheek as he ponders what to say.

“Holy shit, man,” he exhales. “That’s fucking awful.”

If he only knew how terrible I was to her. If he only knew how terrible I still am.

“To be fair, I got what I deserved,” I shrug, reaching inside my suit jacket to dig out my wallet. “I didn't deserve her, anyway. I was a complete asshole…I still am.”

He tilts his head, looking at me through furrowed brows. His expression is a mixture of confusion and pity.

“Give yourself a break, Elliot,” he finally says. “I mean, anyone would feel like shit after losing their fiancée to their own brother. I may not be your best friend, but I know you well enough to know that you’re notallbad. You just…You need to invest in yourself. It seems like you give up a little more each time you walk into this bar. It’s depressing, man,” he mutters, shaking his head.

And that’s my cue to leave.I’m not going to sit here any longer and listen to my bartender give me life advice.

“Yeah,” I scoff, slapping a couple hundred down on the bar. “You’re only saying that because you don’t really know me. If you did, you’d be telling me to rot in hell. Keep the change,” I add, nodding toward the bills on the counter.

“Elliot–”

“Anyways,” I cut him off, sliding off the bar stool. “I better get going. I’ve got a big meeting tomorrow that I need to prepare for. The highlight of my week!” I say sarcastically, lifting two fingers in farewell as I stumble off.

“Elliot!” I hear him bellow from behind the counter. I halt my steps, looking over my shoulder to find concern etched across his face.

“You’re not driving, are you?” he asks. “You know I can’t let you leave my bar and get behind the wheel right now. You can barely walk in a straight line.” His eyes lower to my unsteady legs.

I chuckle, trying to act completely sober when I know it's far from the truth.

“I’ll call an Uber,Officer,” I sneer, stumbling back like Jack Sparrow, which probably doesn't help my case. “You know, the Dallas Police Department should hire you,” I add sarcastically. “Hell, you’re basically doing their job for them.”

He snorts, narrowing his eyes to little slits.

“I take back what I said,” he jabs. “Youarean asshole.”

Even though I know it’s the truth, I can’t help but flinch at his comment. I should be used to hearing it by now.

“I can’t argue with that,” I mutter before turning my back and heading for the exit.

As I walk across the industrial bar, nearing the door leadingout to the bustling street, I hear someone mumble, “Take care of yourself.” I don’t look back or give the comment any attention because I’m tired of being looked at like a fucking project.

My fate has been sealed and there’s no saving me at this point. I’m a piece of shit with nothing but my career to show for. People need to get it through their heads that there's no changing me. I am who I am, and I’m the only one who seems to accept that.

First, it started with weekly interventions from my family, and now my fucking bartender is trying to offer up support. I just wish people would leave me the hell alone and worry about themselves.

I almost make it to the door when the sight of my reflection in the glossy window has me freezing in place.

Holy hell. I look like absolute fucking shit.

My light-brown hair is longer than I like to keep it, pointing in every direction but straight. Strands that I gelled back this morning have come loose, flopping against my forehead. Dark bags cradle my hazel eyes, only enhancing how lifeless and hollow I feel inside. I’ve always had prominent cheekbones, but they look more sunken in than usual. I doubt anyone else would notice, but I look as if I’ve lost a solid ten pounds.

The only thing I have going for me in the looks department is my tailored Tom Ford suit. I religiously drop my suits off at the dry cleaner every Monday and pick them up every Friday so I’m ready for the next work week. On top of that, I always keep an extra suit hanging in the backseat of my Range Rover in case the one I’m wearing gets stained or wrinkled.

I may have forgotten how to properly take care of myself, but I sure as hell know how to dress.

I shake my head, straighten my shoulders, and push open the door. The second I walk outside, I’m met by cool, February air.You never know what kind of weather to expect in Texas, especially in the winter. One day the forecast could be calling for snow and ice, and the next day could be ninety degrees and sunny.

Thankfully, I don’t have to put too much thought into my wardrobe. My closet consists mainly of black, gray, and navy suits. I like my belongings simple, clean, routine, and predictable. I have this obsessive need to be in control of all aspects of my life because the second I let go and give the reins to someone else, I know that all hell will break loose. I’ve seen it happen one too many times in my life.

I live comfortably in black and white. Gray area simply doesn't exist to me.

The cold wind stings my cheeks as I pull my phone from my jacket to request an Uber. Before I have a chance to load the app, my phone buzzes with an incoming call from my future sister-in-law, also known as my ex-fiancée.