“You’ll figure it out,” she added, like it was that simple.

“Sure.”

She stepped closer, pressing a kiss to my temple like I wasn’t too old for it. “Get some sleep,” she murmured. “You look like hell.”

I waited until the door clicked shut before I exhaled, long and shaky, as if I’d been holding my breath since Beverly left.

I knew sleep wasn’t coming.

Not tonight.

36

BEVERLY, 1999

17 years old

The summer heat pressed against my skin like a second layer, thick and unrelenting, even with the windows rolled down. Mexico stretched out ahead of us in endless roads and swaying palm trees, the sun dipping lower into the horizon, painting the sky in soft pinks and oranges.

Jamal was driving, his fingers tapping against the wheel in time with 2Pac’s California Love. Tiffany sat in the passenger seat, one leg propped up on the dash, flipping through a magazine with one perfectly manicured nail.

Her oversized sunglasses kept slipping down her nose, and every few minutes, she pushed them back up with an exaggerated sigh. “This is a waste of a magazine,” she declared, holding up a glossy page. “I mean, look at this. Who wears that?”

Jamal didn’t look up from the road. “Rich people.”

She rolled her eyes, flipping the page with exaggerated disgust. “It’s ugly. Even rich people should have standards.”

Mexico had been her idea, obviously.

She had pitched it as a reset. A distraction.

I hadn’t put up much of a fight. I needed a break. From my thoughts, from the weight of everything I refused to say out loud.

I was in the backseat with Nathan. I wasn't even sure how it happened. One minute, I was single. The next, Nathan was in my life, and everyone just sort of...expected it. It was easy with him. No tangled past, no history, no years of what ifs weighing us down. He wasn’t someone I had to figure out or decode. He was just Nathan. Nathan made me laugh. Nathan paid attention. Nathan liked me.

And, most importantly, he wasn’t Blake.

Blake, who was in the car behind us. With Sydney.

I didn’t look in the rearview mirror. I already knew exactly what I’d see. Blake’s hands on the wheel, his jaw tight, his sunglasses hiding whatever storm was brewing in his eyes.

I hadn’t spoken to him in two months. Not since that night. Not since I locked my door and packed my bag and stayed at Tiffany’s until Mom begged me to come home. Not since I sat in my room alone, half-hoping he’d knock on my door and half-terrified he actually would.

But he never came.

When I was home, he wasn’t.

When I walked into a room, he left.

Blake wasn’t mine anymore. He was Sydney’s.