Glad to help, he wrote back. You played an amazing show. Mate’s fine. Still hasn’t slept but we’re about to do brunch. About me rushing off, did you want to catch up for a drink tonight?

He resisted the urge to add ‘you can use me for sex again. Or step on my throat. Just kill me. Whatever.’ A minute passed in torturous silence. Two minutes.

“Hurry up,” Psycho called from downstairs. Willow ignored him. Her reply came four hellish minutes later.

Glad you’re having a good Sunday. So, I really liked last night, but my life’s a mess. I’m out super late all the time and I sleep all day. I know I’m dancing around here, but basically, I don’t date.

Willow’s heart sank. He knew what that meant. ‘It’s not me, it’s you.’ He looked down at his long freckled toes. Fuck it. At least he knew and he hadn’t made too big a prick of himself either. He could handle this. He’d go eat too much at Derek’s then head out for a run, maybe call his dad and cry. His old man was good for stuff like that. He always listened. Never pushed. The ‘typing’ button flashed up on his screen and he held his breath.

… but I have been thinking about your fingers non-stop.

His mood lifted so quickly, he might have drunk Psycho’s blood. His fingers were typing without another conscious thought.

My fingers have been thinking about you. Us meeting up doesn’t have to be anything heavy. Why don’t we just hang out and debrief?

The ‘typing’ notification flashed again.

I’m playing Heartbreakers at 2am tonight. Do you want to come?

“Yes!”

“What’s going on?” Psycho called.

“I’ve got a date!”

“Fuck yeah, old man! I told you it’d work.”

I’ll see you there tonight, he wrote, his heart pounding like a snare drum.

You won’t be too tired? Don’t you have football training or something?

Yes, but he’d drink ten coffees and take a Psycho dose of MDMA before he missed a chance to see Eden again.

Don’t worry about me, pretty girl. I’m a night owl. See you soon.

See you soon. Thanks again for the post.

Willow beamed at himself in the mirror. “Psycho, we were wrong about everything. It’s going to be a good day.”

5

Sometimes Eden woke up with a broken heart. The second she opened her eyes on Sunday afternoon, she felt it. The drifting ache. The sense she’d entered the wrong ballroom and been crowned queen of someone else’s life. But as she recalled the details—she was twenty-five, living alone, a paid DJ with a pending international tour—she knew she had everything she wanted. Everything she’d chosen. There was no reason for her to be in mourning. And yet…