“There’s nothing bad to say,” I try to joke, but my voice cracks. It’s kind of touching to know that Nick is looking out for me online, even if he doesn’t fully understand social media.

“I know this is weird for you, too,” he continues. “And you’re allowed to tell the truth about how you feel. I shouldn’t have gotten mad about it.”

I lick my lips. “But . . . but what if I wasn’t telling the truth?”

Nick doesn’t say anything.

I scoot closer to him, moving my body across the soft sheets of the king-size bed. He may be one big mystery, but the Nick Velez clues are falling into place and I feel like I’m getting closer than ever to solving this crossword puzzle. We’re so close now, our noses an inch apart, and I know if I reached out a hand I’d feel his bare chest, his heart thump-thump-thumping underneath his skin and bones.

“What if I changed my mind?” I whisper, and there it is. A telltale hitch in Nick’s breath that tells me I have him right where I want him. I thought this wouldn’t be a good idea—and I was probably right—but we’re here now, and this is Nick. He believes in me. He’s the first person I’ve ever told about The Butterfly, and he’s the first person who’s ever encouraged me to do anything about it. My lips part. Would this really be so bad?

“Chloe,” he says, his voice a low growl.

I close my eyes. This is the moment. And this time, we’re not in the shop, and I’m not worrying that this is a bad idea when I should get out of my head for once and do what I know would feel good. Maybe the world won’t fall apart if I let myself have this one thing I want, this thing my entire body has been crying out for, for weeks and months.

“You have a boyfriend,” Nick says, and I press my lips together.

“I don’t think Mikey Danger would call himself my boyfriend,” I clarify. “He’s just . . . a guy I see occasionally.”

“Still. I didn’t ask you to come to Indianapolis with me so I could do this. We were supposed to have separate rooms. I didn’t plan all this as some elaborate way to get you to sleep with me.”

“I know that—” I start to say, my voice tinged with frustration.

“And I’m not saying I don’t want this. Believe me. I want this,” he says, and hearing him say the word want is almost too much for me. It takes everything in me not to launch myself on him, but I do have some pride.

“But you were right. God, it sucks to admit that you were right about us, but you were. We shouldn’t do this. I want you to keep working with me, and I want you to have more responsibility at the shop, and I don’t think we can do those things if . . . well . . .”