I didn’t need to hear their excuses and justifications when nothing could make up for that. And I didn’t need to get my ass kicked in a bar in the middle of nowhere because something tells me Zoey would blame herself for that too.

And now?

Absolute radio silence for three long days.

My phone hasn’t rung, my texts are barren, and though I received an email about the accident, it was from the county clerk, not Zoey. With the accident stuff handled and Zoey making no effort to contact me, that should be the end of it.

But I can’t get her out of my mind. The cute quirk of her lip, only on the left side, when she says something she thinks is a little bit weird and wrong, the way she blurted out trivia facts was sexy as fuck, and how even when she had a whole room full of people judging her, she stood her ground, back straight and head held high. I’m truly impressed by her mettle. And disappointed as hell that she hasn’t contacted me.

None of this, of course, is helping me right this moment as I run through the park.

“Go, go, go . . . sprint for the finish!” my best friend, Trey, instructs me. He’s yelling into the wind, which is the only reason I hear him because he’s leaving me in the dust.

Trey’s always been a better runner, but I reach deep, looking for a little more juice, a little more oomph. Normally, it works, but this time I’m tapped out, drier than the Sahara. In three strides, all I can see is his back, his legs working smoothly to add distance between us. He crosses our imaginary finish line of the tree at the corner and throws his arms high in victory.

“And the crowd goes wild! Trey, you slay! Trey, you slay!” he cheers for himself in rhymes and some Valley Girl accent he doesn’t usually possess. “Trey, will you be my bay-bay!”

I slow down, not willing to kill myself if he’s already won our friendly competition for today. Instead, I check my time on my watch, seeing that not only has Zoey destroyed my concentration, but she’s also killed my five-mile time, adding nearly six minutes. And a stitch in my side that I try to rub at subtly.

Trey notices, of course, and bounces back to me to finish the last few yards together. “Just call her, asshole,” he says easily. Even that irks me, both his advice and that he’s not panting the way I am. “Or are you to poo-ooh-ooh-ooh-sss—”

“Fuck off,” I pant, the most I can manage considering the lack of oxygen my body’s feeling right now.

“Don’t talk to me in that tone of gasp,” Trey growls mockingly. “You know I’m telling the truth.”