I freeze once again, the chill of his words an ice pick piercing my heart. My head falls, and I blink rapidly, sucking in short, rasping breaths. I force my feet to move, stumbling over to the counter to grab my laptop, abandoning my coffee and my phone, anything to get to the door as fast as possible.

“Sadie,” Jack calls, but I ignore him, bolting down the stairs and into my room, shutting and locking the door behind me.

He knocks on my door five minutes later, but I continue to ignore him, pretending to work, though how I’d be able to input numbers onto a spreadsheet when tears are blurring my vision is beyond me. His words weren’t a surprise. Anything but. I guess I’d just deluded myself into believing Jack actually liked me, maybe even cared about me as more than a friend. But of course, all along he’s been thinking I’m insufferable. Because I am.

I wait an hour before I open the door, and I only venture out because I have to pee. My phone and my coffee are waiting for me right outside the door. I scoop them up and scamper to the bathroom.

I don’t check my phone until I’m safely locked back in my room, buried under my covers for good measure.

JACK: I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, and it was a horrible thing to say, and I’d like to apologize when you’re ready to hear it.

Ugh. Even his apologies are mature.

An hour later my phone chirps again.

JACK: If you let me talk to you, I’ll answer all your questions . . .

He already knows what to say to make me give in.

I wait another half an hour before I respond.

ME: Fine. I’m coming downstairs. Have wine ready.

I let another twenty minutes pass, taking the time to wipe under my eyes and fix my hair.

When I head downstairs, Jack is already waiting at the sofa, two glasses of wine sitting on the coffee table. I sit as far away from him as I can and drink half of the glass before turning my attention to him.

“I’m sorry, Sadie. That was a shitty thing to say. The shittiest. I never should’ve said it, and I sure as fuck didn’t mean it.” He clasps his hands together, knuckles turning white. “This is probably going to sound terrible, but I love listening to you talk about yourself and your life and your friends and your work.”

I purse my lips. “Is that all?”

His brow furrows. “Yes. I mean, I’m sorry. Again.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you could paint?”

He releases his clenched hands, wiping his palms on his jeans. “I couldn’t. Not for a long time, anyway.”

“How long?”

He meets my gaze head-on. “Seven years.”