But I’m not because I realize it’s Remi. He’s protecting me from her.

I halt at the door, which forces Felix and Dev to a stop. I need to breathe, a second away from everything. Shaking my head, I change direction, following the length of the bus. Dev curses behind me. Not Felix, though. He still hasn’t said a word, and a gut check says he won’t until he’s high.

Clasping my hands on the back of my neck, I round the end of the bus into shadows. As soon as I’m out of sight, I let in what I’ve staved off since the karaoke room. The anger and fear and doubt, and then the heartbreak and ache and guilt. The bitter taste of betrayal returns, and all the way at the bottom of the Remi box, the hate.

And it’s as potent as ever.

I drop my hands, followed by my forehead onto the cold metal. The situation feels wrong, like a piece has been forced in where it doesn’t belong. But I can’t be fooled by the faulty wiring inside of me when it comes to the sad, broken girl—my beautiful liar. Only two of those words have ever been true. Remi was never my anything. She was never mine.

In need of a distraction, I push off the bus and spin, leaning against it. I fish out my phone to shoot off a text. I intend to ignore all the notifications until one snags my attention. The same number called three times since yesterday. Without it in my contacts, I would usually ignore it, but this one’s also in my messages. At the top and from less than a minute ago. When they text again, a bunch of question marks show in the preview.

Aggressive.

Every now and then a fan gets ahold of my number, or someone sends a woman my way. Uninterested in entertaining either, I tap the thread open to block the person. But they text again before I can, my thumb hovering over the screen.

Unknown

Two minutes is all I need. I’ll even prove it’s me.

I scroll up to their first message from yesterday where they admonish me for not checking my DMs. I snort, but all humor and thoughts vanish when I read the next one. The name’s as much a shockwave as the first time it appeared on my screen. Before I have a chance to doubt, the proof auto-scrolls me to the newest message from her.

In the selfie, Sav Loveless holds a phone, today’s date on the lock screen, the time on it the same as mine when adjusted for a time zone difference.

Then the number calls again.

I answer, and any lingering disbelief disintegrates.

“Finally,” she sighs out. “You, Adams North, are nearly impossible to get ahold of.”