DeeLight to SammyBaker: I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing. I shouldn’t even care anymore, but I do. What I didn’t get to tell you earlier is that I’m living in Macon’s house. I’m constantly reminded of what you did—I know you told those stalkers where he’d be. I’m so ashamed of you for that. Maybe I could understand if you would TALK TO ME. But you’re hiding. Damn it, Sam, this needs to end. Macon deserves better than what you gave him. Yes, Macon. He’s not so bad. Not anymore.

I hit send, then rapidly type out another. It feels safe, somehow, texting to someone who won’t get the message. Like a silent confession.

DeeLight to SammyBaker: I like him, Sam. I like him a lot.

Quickly, as though Macon himself might sneak up on me and see what I’ve written, I close the text screen and head for my car. It’s only when I’m at Jia’s that I realize the texts to Sam didn’t bounce back to me this time.

Macon

I used to be decisive. It was one of my best qualities. I reflect on this bitterly as I pop a piece of sashimi in my mouth and chew like it’s tough steak instead of silky, fresh tuna. God damn, even the taste of the food makes me think of her. Delilah—the woman destroying my decisiveness.

I should be thinking about the woman sitting in front of me. Anya Sorenson. She’s utterly stunning: big liquid brown eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and flawless skin of mahogany brown. Anya has the natural shine of a star. People catch a glimpse of her, and they end up staring. She’s surprisingly easygoing.

I like her. And I’m being a shit date. I swallow down my food and bring up a smile. “How are things over at Gauntlet?”

Anya pauses, chopsticks midreach for a piece of avocado roll. “It’s wonderful. Perfect.”

Her smile is bright. But the edges are strained.

“You’re exhausted, aren’t you?”

Her smile falls. “God, do I look exhausted?”

The worry in her expression is one I commiserate with. We’re not allowed to appear tired and worn.

“Not at all.” And she doesn’t. She’s as luminous as ever. “I’m simply speaking from experience.”

With a soft sigh, she lets her shoulders slump. “It’s insane, isn’t it? I feel wired, like I’m constantly humming.”

It’s one reason some actors get into drugs—to stay that way, or we’re afraid to actually crash and burn.

“I’ve learned to catnap like a boss.” I snag another piece of sashimi. “It helps.”

“I can’t seem to turn my brain off.” She waves an elegant hand through the air in a helpless gesture. “It’s just running at full speed all the time.”