I press a palm flat to the wall to steady myself. “That’s fucking unfair, and you know it. I never assumed you’d climb back into bed with me. I want what we had.”

“We talked. Then we fucked.” She cocks her head to the side, ice-cold Shay returning so quickly I have whiplash. “Don’t you remember how it goes? Next, you walk away.”

“Shay—” I reach for her, but she shakes out of my grasp and pushes past me and out the door. I see her run for the back exit and watch the door shut behind her.

Part VII.

Shay

June 3rd, ten years ago

I’m exhausted. I got home yesterday from my month in Paris. Mom drove to Chicago because she wanted to be the one to pick me up from the airport and the first to hear all about my trip. We spent the evening hanging out at one of her favorite lakeside restaurants as she regaled me with questions and demanded to know every detail.

I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about Easton. My memories of our night and day together are so precious, and I want to keep them locked away like rare, ancient tomes whose pages can disintegrate with human touch.

Then last night I fell into bed, convinced I’d fall comatose for twelve hours, but I could barely sleep. After tossing and turning for six hours, I gave up, made a pot of coffee, and wished I didn’t have this horrible, aching worry in my chest regarding Easton’s silence.

When I can’t handle it anymore, I text him.

Me: Are you free? I need to talk.

Easton: Give me two minutes and I’ll call.

I set my phone down on the coffee table and squeeze my eyes shut. Just two minutes.

Another wave of exhaustion washes over me, and I lean back on the couch and put my hand flat against my chest. I just want to go home—my Jackson Harbor home, not this Chicago rental I share with three other girls. I want to curl up in my own bed and hide under my own blankets. I want Easton to find me there, crawl in bed beside me, and tell me it’s going to be okay. Tell me he hasn’t been avoiding me.

Easton texted me when he got home, but then his messages became . . . sparse. He said we’d talk when I got home from Paris, that he didn’t want to bother me during my trip, but something felt off.