Page 102 of Mr. Brightside

I cock my head and level him with a glare. “Don’t you fucking dare.”“The great Jake Whitely, looking mopey as fuck. I need photographic proof that you’re not always Mr. Brightside.”

Shame prickles through me as his teasing sinks in.

“Rhett, this isn’t a joke.” I tent my arms and slump against the quartz countertop, hanging my head in shame. “I fucked up. I fucked up big time.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, coming over to stand next to me at the bar. “You did.”

What. The. Hell? Did he fly all the way back to Hampton just to make me feel shittier about myself? I’ve mastered self-loathing; no assistance needed.

He clasps my shoulder as he continues.

“You fucked up, but you’re not a fuck-up, and you know it. You’resofucking close to having everything you never knew you wanted. Clinton’s and The Oak? Someone you’re crazy about, who loves you in return? Revenge on Joe as you spend that sweet inheritance?”

I smirk at the call out. He’s not wrong.

“But you’re the only one who can decide if you’re going to chase the life you deserve, or if you’re going to roll over and give up.”

I scoff at the very notion. Then I can’t help but smile: Rhett’s my best friend for a reason. He knows exactly how my mind works—exactly what to say to force me into action.

He’s still got his hand on my shoulder when I finally look at him. “I don’t know how I can come back from this,” I admit. I shake my head a few times to expunge myself of the heartache when I think of Cory’s expression the other day. “You should have seen him, Rhett. He wasn’t even mad—just sad. And determined. He said he couldn’t do it. He said it was over, that it was too late. Then he just walked out the door.”

“Bro.” He cocks one eyebrow in challenge.

Judging by the amused assessment he gives me, I must look pathetic.

“I don’t want to downplay what happened… what you did or how it made Cory feel. But I can promise you this. If you’re meant to be—if you feel about him the way you said you did—you’ll find a way back to each other.”

I stare at him, annoyed with the cosmic bullshit. Where’s the advice on how to fix this?

“You don’t get it. You didn’t hear how angry he was with me—” I start to explain.

“And you haven’t been in a relationship before,” he counters. “You’re not the first person on the planet to disappoint your partner or not communicate something clearly, bro. You fucked up, but you didn’t fuck it up forever. You haven’t been through this, but shit like this happens to everyone. But step one is deciding that what you have is worth it. You have to decide that you want to fight for your marriage. It might not happen the way you want, or as fast as you want, but these things tend to work out in time.”

“Yeah, okay,” I mutter. I don’t totally buy it, but if Rhett thinks there’s hope, I owe it to myself to try to figure this shit out.

“How’d you get so wise?” I tease, batting his hand off me and mock-punching him in the arm.

He smirks as he ducks out of reach before I make contact. “You’re talking to the king of regrettable fuck-ups, bro. I’ve messed up, too. Plenty of times. But I had the best people in my corner who never gave up on me.”

A moment of understanding passes between us as his words take root. I’ve always prided myself on being the best friend, in supporting him through anything. I guess now it’s my turn to be on the receiving end of that support.

He steps forward and pulls me into a full-body hug. “It’ll work out, bro. I can’t tell you how, but I promise it will,” he murmurs. He hugs me for longer than necessary, all up in his feelings and trying to work his emotional intelligence magic on me. When he finally releases me, he leans back and grimaces.

“You smell like beer and pizza rolls,” he groans. “You’re done wallowing, by the way. Go get changed and grab your sneakers. We’re going for a run.”

I balk at his bossy-ass instructions, about to argue that he can’t possibly run in his stupid collared shirt and fancy work pants. But then I see the overnight bag at his feet. Huh. So this isn’t just some stopover pep talk.

I retreat from the kitchen, reach behind my back, and pull off my shirt as I make my way to my bedroom, resigned to the fact that I’m about to be on the receiving end of that special brand of Everhett Wheeler tough love. My calves are already cramping at the thought. I can’t fucking wait.

We’re sitting side by side on the top row of the bleachers, dripping sweat and panting after what has to be our tenth round of stairs. My best friend’s crazy cardio-loving ass made us jog all the way out to Hampton High, sprint a mile around the track, then race up and down the risers until my vision went fuzzy. Maybe he thinks he can exhaust some sense into me this way.

It’s not a particularly warm day, but we’re both drenched. I don’t need to look over at him to know his cheeks are bright pink, his brow furrowed in satisfaction from the crazy-hard workout he just subjected us to.

“Fuck, it feels good to run outside.”

I smirk at his enthusiasm. Then I sit up straighter, mentally preparing to share what I’ve been thinking about since we made our way under the train bridge on our jog out here.

I don’t bother with context or platitudes. If I don’t just come out and say this, I never will.