Before I could think too hard about it, I called out, “Hey⁠—”

He glanced back, eyebrows lifting.

I forced another polite smile. “Okay.”

That was all I said.

But his grin widened, slow and pleased. “Yeah?”

I nodded, ignoring the way my stomach churned. “Yeah.”

He took a few steps back toward me, his eyes still bright with amusement. “You sure?”

No. Not really. But I said, “I think so.”

“Alright, then.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it out. “Give me your number?”

I hesitated for half a second before taking it. My fingers moved, typing in the digits, and when I handed it back, he glanced at the screen, then back at me.

“I’ll text you,” he said.

I nodded again, trying to match his easy smile.

He flashed me a grin, winked at Tiffany, and walked off, leaving behind the scent of cheap cologne and a gnawing sense of regret that I didn’t quite understand.

Tiffany practically squealed, grabbing my arm. “Oh my God, finally!”

I exhaled slowly, rubbing my forehead.

I should have felt something, anything—excitement, nerves, anticipation. But all I felt was that same tightness in my chest.

I knew the truth: I could let a dozen boys flirt with me, could let them touch my hand, kiss my lips, whisper my name.

But they would never be him.

30

BLAKE, 1999

18 years old

The first real warm day of March, and I hated it. I hated the way the sun felt too bright, too loud, too in my face. I hated the way the heat clung to my skin, making it impossible to feel numb.

I wanted the cold back. I wanted the excuse.

Hell, I was exhausted. Not the kind of exhausted that sleep could fix. No, this was soul exhaustion. The kind that made my bones feel heavy, my brain feel foggy, and my patience for Jamal’s nonsense dangerously low.

Which is exactly why I was sitting in the back of his parents’ diner, staring at my untouched plate of fries while he rattled off some nonsense about world domination. He had dragged me here under the guise of bro time, which in his language meant “sit down, eat, and let me entertain myself by making you miserable.”

It was late afternoon, the post-lunch, pre-dinner lull, which meant the place was mostly empty aside from a few older men drinking tea in the corner and Jamal’s mother behind the counter, effortlessly keeping an eye on everything.

“And that’s why I think technically, girls like Tiffany could get away with overthrowing a small government,” Jamal finished, popping a fry into his mouth.

I blinked at him. “Jamal, that entire sentence was a felony.”

“You can’t prove that.” He winked.

I sighed, rubbing my temple. “You stress me out.”

My shifts had been hell, my head was killing me, and the last thing I needed was whatever game he was playing.