I grabbed a paper towel and attempted to make myself look less like a raccoon who'd lost a fight with a fire hydrant. "Did Amber tell you anything?"
"She's been protecting your privacy like state secrets," Bryson said, refilling my coffee. "Just mentioned you had 'a lot going on.' Which, in Amber-speak, could mean anything from work stress to joining a cult."
"Close. I joined a reverse harem instead."
"Same level of life complication, probably fewer robes."
The alcohol made everything spill out—verbal vomit to match the emotional kind. Freeman Industries pressure. Dad's disappointment. Three brothers who'd rewired my brain chemistry. The sex that made me reconsider atheism. The professional tightrope. The feelings I couldn't name without having a complete mental breakdown.
Bryson's eyes got progressively wider, like watching a car crash in slow motion. To his credit, he didn't interrupt. Just kept sliding paper towels across the counter as I ugly-cried through the world's messiest confession.
"Now I'm going to tell you something even Amber doesn't know yet," I said, voice rough from crying and too much karaoke.
He straightened, recognizing the weight of that trust. Bryson might be a goofball ninety percent of the time, but he understood the friend hierarchy. Being told secrets before Amber was like being handed nuclear codes.
"Thursday, Stephen basically detonated an emotional bomb. Sent flowers to my office—huge, obvious, career-suicide flowers. Then announced he wants commitment. Clarity. Labels. The whole fucking relationship package."
"Jesus." Bryson exhaled slowly, processing. "And the other two?"
"Titus looked like someone had rearranged his entire worldview. Raphael went into full murder-eyes mode. And I..." I laughed, sharp and bitter. "I basically told them all to fuck off and figure out their feelings while I hosted this bachelorette party."
"Okay." He drummed his fingers on the counter, thinking. "If Amber were here—and sober—she'd probably say you're deflecting. That you're using anger to avoid dealing with the real issue."
I stared at him. "That's exactly what she'd say."
"She'd also say you're scared shitless because you actually care about all of them, and caring means vulnerability, and vulnerability means possibly getting hurt."
"Stop doing that."
"And she'd finish with something about how you can't control everything, and sometimes you just have to jump and trust someone will catch you."
"I hate how well you know her." I drained my coffee, wishing it was something stronger. "It's creepy."
"Eight years of friendship plus two years of dating. I've got her playbook memorized." He leaned against the counter, studying me. "So what do you actually feel for them?"
"If I can't admit it to myself, how could I possibly answer you?"
The deflection came so fast it surprised us both. But there it was—the truth wrapped in avoidance. I couldn't even think the words without my chest going tight, without panic creeping up my spine.
"Fair." Bryson nodded slowly. "But here's my unsolicited advice, since you're drunk enough to maybe remember it: admit to yourself how you feel. Then tell them. Let them decide what to do with it."
"That's terrifying."
"Yeah, but at least it's honest." He grinned, warmth cutting through my spiral. "Look, the only thing that really matters is you're at our wedding, standing next to Amber. Whether you bring zero, one, or three dates? Not that important."
A thought struck through my self-pity fog. "Wait. Why are you home? Shouldn't you be at your bachelor party?"
"Last weekend." His grin went full dork. "A day of gaming, energy drinks, and arguing about Star Wars canon. It was perfect."
"That's the most childish thing I've ever heard." I shook my head, fighting a smile. "And completely on brand."
"We can't all party with strippers and cocaine like real adults."
"Pretty sure there's middle ground between strippers and arguing whether Han shot first."
"There is no argument. Han absolutely shot first. The original theatrical release is gospel."
I laughed—real this time, not the sharp defensive thing I'd been doing. "Thank you. For listening. For not judging. For being you."
He pulled me into a hug that smelled like fabric softener and safety. "You want to crash here? Couch is yours."
"Nah. I need my own bed and a gallon of water." I pulled back, attempting dignity. "Can you—"
"Call you a cab? I am ordering." He steered me toward the door. "Drink water. Take ibuprofen. Text me when you're home so I know you didn't die."
"Sir, yes sir."
The cab ride was a smeared painting of streetlights and city noise, my brain too fried to register anything beyond forward motion. It took three tries to get the key into the lock—because apparently fine motor skills are the first to go after a night like that.
I stumbled inside, dropped my bag somewhere vaguely near the door, and made it to my bedroom on pure determination and muscle memory. Face-first into the mattress, fully clothed. Shoes on. Classy.
Sunday morning didn’t arrive—it attacked. A full-on assault led by the sun itself, spearing through the curtains like it had a vendetta. My skull pulsed with every heartbeat, and then—because the universe is a cruel, theatrical bitch—my phone started ringing.
Sharp, insistent, and way too loud. Each vibration a fresh nail driven straight into my temples.
I fumbled for it, squinting at the screen. Dad. Because of course. The universe's timing remained undefeated.
"Hello?" My voice sounded like I'd gargled gravel.
"Dakota? You sound terrible."
Understatement of the fucking century. My head felt like someone had used it for batting practice, my mouth tasted like something died in it, and moving required a spiritual experience.
"Just tired." I managed, praying he'd make this quick.
"Come home. We need to talk. Around lunch?"
No explanation. No context. Just that perfect Bruce Freeman tone that managed to make requests sound like royal summons. "Sure. Noon?"
"Fine."
The line went dead. I stared at the ceiling, cataloging my life choices. Three sort-of boyfriends. One ultimatum. Zero clarity. A best friend's wedding is approaching at light speed. And now whatever fresh hell my father was about to unleash.
I had a couple of hours to transform from a hungover disaster to a functional human.
Challenge fucking accepted.