“And we’re”—she glances around us, at the snow and the dark water below—“on the Burnside Bridge again.”

“We are.”

She grinds the toe of her boot into the snow. “And you humiliated yourself for me tonight.”

No point in pretending now, not when she can probably see the snot crusted onto my face. “I would humiliate myself a thousand times for you, Jack.”

There it is—her half-moon smile, right there, on this bridge, just the two of us. “Maybe one more time. Since you did get fake-engaged to my brother…”

“One more time,” I say, and I hope, hope, hope. “Jack. I’m in love with you. It took less than fifteen hours for me to fall in love with every damn thing about you. In particular, your hair, and the stupid way you flick your chin to get it out of your face.”

“The stupid way I what—?”

“And your thighs, which are thick and magnificent, and the way you either stand solid like an oak tree or have to lean against every available surface, there’s no in-between.”

“An oak tree? Are these supposed to be compliments?”

“Yes. You are a sexy oak tree. And you’re brave and you’re outspoken, and I love your heavy gait and the fact that you always shout, even though you’re really far too loud to take to any museum or formal restaurant, and you’re the smartest slacker I’ve ever met—probably because you’re not a slacker at all, you’re just a kinesthetic learner who’s been bombarded with really negative messages about the way your brain works.”

“You’re in love with my learning style now?”

“You’re not getting it,” I say impatiently, plainly. “I’m in love with every single thing about you, Jack Kim-Prescott.”

She takes one hand out of her pocket and reaches for mine. As she knits our fingers together, I fall apart. Jack doesn’t move. She just stands there with a mocking half-moon smile. I want to grab her by her indifferent shoulders. I want to dig my nails into her skin and kiss her collarbone, memorizing the musculature that allows her to be so relaxed while my entire body riots. “Go on. Surely there is more to the humiliating speech.”

“I love you.” I shrug. “And I don’t have a plan for what happens next. I live in a closet, and I work in an art-supply store, and hopefully maybe someday, I’ll also get to tell stories with my art. But maybe not. Maybe I’ll have to figure out a different dream instead. I… I know I hurt you. I know I betrayed your trust. But if you give me a third chance, I will never do that again.”

“You’ll never get engaged to my brother in exchange for money and lie to me about it again?”