“No,” I whisper. It’s all I can do against the wave of horror that rushes over me.

Celeste cocks her head in confusion, her eyes squinting with concern. “You okay?”

A whirlwind of thoughts and emotions war inside me. I want to scream. To laugh. To do both at the same time. But what I don’t want to do is tell Celeste that we’re assigned to work together. That’s an awkward conversation I won’t be touching with a ten-foot pole.

I have to get out of here and email Evelyn. I resolve to meet with her as soon as I can and change her mind about hiring Celeste. I might not be able to do anything about the past, but I want to do everything in my power to stop our paths from messily overlapping again.

“Well, thanks for your help,” I say. “Have a good rest of your night. I’m taking this guy home.”

I’m not, but the lie is a hundred percent worth Celeste’s reaction. She jerks back in disgust, a way stronger reaction than I expected from her.

“Wait, you’re going home with this loser?” she asks.

“That’s the plan, or at least, it was before I got caught up in all of this,” I say, gesturing between her and me.

“Do you even know where he lives?”

I shrug. “I’ll ask him.”

When I shake him awake, he gives me an address on Spear Street, a less-than-ten-minute drive from the bar.

I turn to Celeste with a triumphant smile. “Well, there you go.”

I’m trying to flag down the bartender when I feel a firm but gentle grip on my shoulder.

“Gem,” Celeste says, her voice low and smooth like silk. “This is crazy. You barely know this guy and he’s half-asleep. You should get him a taxi or something and go home.”

I check the time on my phone to avoid telling Celeste that I’m actually doing exactly what she said I should do. Ten fifty-five p.m. After disappearing without any explanation or apology for eight years, who does she think she is to tell me what I can or can’t do?

I type Ian’s address into my phone and request a ride. Luckily the cost is pretty minimal since it’s not rush hour.

“Can I have two glasses of water, please?” I ask when the bartender turns our way. “And close the tab? Sorry, again.”

“It happens,” they congenially say as they pour two glasses of water for us and place the check on the bar.

I chug the first glass of water and press the other one against Ian’s cheek to wake him up. I really don’t want to pay for his egregious bill.

Fortunately, Ian stirs awake.

“Oh, hello!” he says. “Sorry, did I pass out?”