It’s the first time I’ve said it, and I know it’s not the right time, but I’m desperate, and I need her to know how I feel.

Corinne is quiet for a moment as the words hang in the air.

When she finally speaks, I know that this is over. “I hate how powerful people think those words are? Okay, so, you . . . that, and now what? It’s all forgotten? Never mind everything you did? How can I believe you? You lie to everyone, about everything. You’re a liar.”

“I never lied to you!” I know that’s a lie.

“You said you wouldn’t hurt me. You said that! And I was dumb enough to actually believe it.”

She keeps staring at me, and I feel like a cluttered desktop folder being right-clicked and slowly moved to a trash bin in her mind.

“I know what I look like, okay?” she finally says, shaking her head.

“What?”

“I’m not size-zero Evie freaking Hooper, and that’s fine! But I— This was always . . . poorly thought out.”

Where was this coming from?

“This is insane, Corinne!” I manage to choke out. “I think you’re gorgeous! You know that.”

“Oh, fuck you, Haltiwanger,” she snaps. “I know I’m amazing, Henri. I don’t need pity from—”

She stops herself short and looks directly up at the sky as if to hold back the slightest bit of tears from forming and locks back down onto me with that pure Troy resolve, eyes completely dry.

“You know what? I am so done with this conversation.”

And with that, she hurries up the stairs to the Wyatt, with a confused puppy in her arms panting happily as he catches another quick sight of me.

I stand there, watching as she disappears inside the building.

Somehow, nothing about this outcome feels surprising. This visual of Corinne walking away from me, looking disgusted, feels like an inevitable outcome that was etched in stone since the moment she stopped being Corinne Troy and just became Corinne. There was really no other way for this to end. I just hadn’t expected it to end so soon or my chest to feel like it does right now.

Twenty-Eight

This time, the lobby of the River Heights building is filled with boxes. Not the kind the tenants of the Wyatt use in their moves—the repurposed online-retailer chunks of cardboard scotch-taped and weathered on all sides—but pristine and reinforced white boxes with purple lettering that matches the lettering on the backs of the purple T-shirted movers, all either Black and Latino men. They move like it’s choreographed, passing the boxes to each other like dancing henchmen in a cartoon musical.

“Out of the way, kid!” one of them shouts my way.

“S-sorry!” I step out of the way, scanning the lobby for any sign of Lion.