I grow more and more angry on the walk back to my apartment, to the point that unshed tears line my eyes. How does someone stand someone up without an explanation? Someone who forgets you even exist and that they had plans with you, that’s who.

The once-familiar sensation of not being good enough causes me to blink back tears against the cold wind. Not even the sight of the first snowflake lightens my mood. I can’t even muster up a smile for Mrs. Hoffmeister when I pass her bundled up in her coat, smoking on the steps of our building. I simply wave and walk past.

Once I’m in my apartment, I change into some comfy loungewear and decide to try to forget about Andrew. So what if he forgot about me? It doesn’t matter. Who cares if he found me forgettable? Better I find out now than later what kind of person he is.

I make popcorn, snuggle in my bed, and turn on the Hallmark channel, wanting to get lost in a winter wonderland where people’s problems always magically get sorted out. My phone rings a few minutes after I start the movie, but I ignore it. It doesn’t matter who it is. I don’t feel like talking to anyone.

About an hour later, there’s a knock at my apartment door.

My forehead wrinkles as I take the fifteen steps from my bed to the door. Mrs. Hoffmeister probably needs something. I stand on my tiptoes and look through the peephole to find Andrew pacing in front of my door.

My stomach swoops down toward the floor like a soaring bird and I drop back down flat-footed. I hadn’t expected him.

I startle at the second knock on the door.

“I know you’re in there, Kenzie. Mrs. Hoffmeister told me you came home about an hour ago.”

Damn Mrs. Hoffmeister, the busybody. See if I ever go to the corner store to buy her cigarettes again.

Without a word, I unlocked the dead bolt, the chain, and the door lock and swing the door open. When I pictured Andrew in my space—because yes, I certainly have daydreamed—I was always nervous about what he might think, knowing his place is bound to be much more impressive than my studio apartment. But in this moment, I don’t give a shit what he thinks.

“I’m so sorry.” He rushes past me into my apartment, then turns to face me while I close and lock the door.

When I turn around, it’s with a good amount of attitude on my face and in my body language—crossed arms and hip jutted out. I’m not impressed.