“Thank you,” they say in unison, and then the woman’s smile grows brighter before she shouts, “Jinx! You owe me a pop!”

Her giggles float through the store and her partner looks down at her like she’s the most amazing person he’s ever had the pleasure to be around. It’s adorable.

I bet she reads Jasper’s books.

It’s rude the way I can’t seem to forget about him. The way his name is fighting to stay at the forefront of my brain while he’s probably tapping away at a keyboard somewhere, content to never think about me again. Not that I blame him. I was the crazy lady who blubbered about her dead grandma and then wistfully droned on and on about lost dreams of photography and travel. And again, I cried! A groan of embarrassment gets lodged in my throat and I want to bang my head against the counter thinking about the way I unloaded on poor, unsuspecting Jasper.

To be fair, though, part of it is definitely his fault.

Trust me, Drew, you can tell me anything. Look into my beautiful eyes and spill your heart out to me. Who can say no to that? He practically begged for it.

Okay. Fine.

He didn’t say all that, but he might as well have. Holding my hands and looking at me like he did. I don’t have a defense for that. Nobody has a defense for that!

But even as I felt his hands tense on mine and saw his eyes widen with shock—and maybe a small amount of horror—as I told him about the way my dad has been fighting me or how I’ve ignored the camera tucked in the back of my closet for months, I could not stop talking.

It was a fucking nightmare.

Such a nightmare, in fact, that when I got home and noticed the five missed calls from Elsie and two missed calls from Daisy, I just let my phone die and haven’t charged it since. Is there a chance I will be stranded on the highway because of my nearing-on-ancient Jeep? Sure. Is that worth plugging in my phone and having to rehash the night in great detail with my sister or best friend? Nope. I’d rather hitchhike and try my hand at avoiding a serial killer. Honestly, anything other than getting scolded for my terrible social skills and scaring off a man who is, perhaps, the most eligible bachelor in all of America sounds like a goddamn picnic.

I piddle around the register, putting the pens away and throwing away mysterious scraps of paper that always seem to clutter the space, until I can’t stay back here any longer. I weave through the tall shelves, making sure the books are where they’re supposed to be and moving the ones that aren’t, before I end up in the travel section.