“Are you on drugs? Stimulants? Is this a thing you do for international flights?”

“I…Sorry, what?”

“I’m not going to narc on you. But if there is a problem—”

“No. Why the hell do you think I’m on drugs?”

He steps into me, forcing me to tilt back my neck. He’s always been too tall for comfort—physically and spiritually. “You’re manic. Your pupils are dilated. You’ve been hyper and fidgety since you stepped out of the car, word-vomiting—”

“This is just how I am.”

He laughs. The dark sound fills the room. “Maya.”

There is so much behind that word. Maya, come on. Maya, I know how you are. I know you, Maya.

And yes. He does. He does know me. Which is why he should know better than to think I’d do drugs at my brother’s wedding. “I’m not high. And you could stand to be a little more grateful.”

He frowns. “Grateful to whom?”

“To me. For trying to be easy.”

“Easy?” An amused huff. “You haven’t been easy a second in your life.”

“But I can be.”

“Maya.” That same tone. He shakes his head and looks down at me, like it never even occurred to him that I would want to pretend that things between us are not fraught and uncomfortable and sticky. “Get some sleep. And stop acting like a red dye–guzzling child. That’s not easy.” He turns to leave, not even annoyed enough to be angry. As dismissive of me as he’s always been.

And that’s when I decide that if he’s going to play this game, I’m going to give him difficult. “It was Avery, wasn’t it?”

He freezes, facing away from me. “What?”

“She was the reason you stopped talking to me.”

Chapter 4

Conor turns around very, very slowly.

Slowly enough for me to gather my face into something neutral—not too cross, not too hurt.

He’s remembering it, too, our last conversation. His words over the phone—precise, formal, definitive. The long silence before I managed a response. My slightly disbelieving laughter. “I am starting to see someone, Maya. And I worry that she might misconstrue the relationship between you and me.”

I hung up on him. And regretted it when he didn’t call back—not that night, nor any night of the past ten months. Clearly, those anger issues of mine are alive and thriving.

It took a single, offhanded question to Eli to figure out that the someone was Avery, but that was the extent of my discoveries when it came to the relationship. Conor was never going to update social media accounts he didn’t have with pictures of his romantic coastal weekends, and more prying would have only made Eli suspicious.

I did try to contact Conor again. We were, after all, good friends. Despite his fear of misconstruction, our relationship had been explicitly not romantic. But Conor saw right through that. Instead of picking up my calls, he would reply with texts that made something very clear: he was there for me, but he’d rather wire me a million dollars than have a five-minute conversation with me.