And she’s clearly feeling them, too.

I know what happened out there. You pushed me back onto the ground and let yourself fall instead. The only reason you have three broken bones is because of me.

What was I supposed to do? Let her fall?

She stood in my room, so proud and so strong. She’s made of twigs, really. Twigs and leaves and whatever weight fills the air. She’s delicate—but she made me take my pain medicine. I hate feeling groggy. I hate losing control. And I’m losing control to Jane.

I’m alone in the room now, but for how long?

She’ll be back, taking care of me, nursing me back to health, and I’ll fucking fall in love with her. It’s a disaster. I need to fix this—for my sake and for hers. She’s nineteen with dreams of her own. She doesn’t need to be saddled with a bastard like me and my millions of secrets.

The word already looks a little more hazy from the meds.

At least my leg throbs less.

I pick up my phone. Mateo. That’s who I should call. My old friend would give me shit about falling off a cliff, but he’d help me. Probably.

Unless he’s shooting some commercial.

Instead I scroll to the bottom and dial Zoey Aldridge.

She makes me wait ten rings before answering. I can imagine her in her black-lacquer apartment, nails clicking against a glass tabletop while she watches her iPhone ring.

“Hello, Beau.” There’s that sultry voice I remember.

“Zoey.”

“Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you again. After I got your parting gift. In the mail.”

She’s pissed. Of course she’d be pissed. I didn’t feel like meeting her just to break up, so I sent her something pretty from Tiffany’s. Not like she returned it.

In the silence that follows I can hear her calculating her next move. It’s sweet, actually. Being with someone I can understand. Not like Jane with her dark eyes and mystery.

“I broke my leg. In three places.”

“Is that your way of saying you miss me?”

“It’s my way of inviting you to Maine.”

“If you want me to fuck you with your leg broken, you can think again.”

“I did miss this,” I say with a laugh. It’s the same way you miss the rough open seas. Not because they were pleasant, but because it’s all you knew. “Pick out a present. Send me the link. And get on a fucking plane.”

“You’re a bastard, Beau Rochester. Everyone told me.”