That day—that seemingly stupid, insignificant day—hadn’t only settled in my mind. It oozed around every cell inside my head like glue, taking up all available space. Even now, I can’t think of another memory without that one shading it. Though so much has happened in between, it’s like I’m right back there again in his bed when we were fifteen. As I lean against the door of my Jeep, watching Kane say goodbye to some of his admirers, I’m doing it again, trying to pick that thought out of my brain.

Damn him.

Kane Weeks doesn’t have to lift a finger to be a magnet to the opposite sex. He has female admirers coming out his ears, more girls than he knows what to do with.

“Please tell me those aren’t all yours,” I mumble as he saunters up to me holding a cardboard shoebox filled with flowers.

“They are,” he says, smiling down at them. “I only sent one, though.”

“Stupidly.” I pull the sleeves of my oversize sweatshirt down and hook my thumbs through the holes I’d ripped in the seams of the cuffs.

He ignores my comment. “You got it, right?”

“I did. Homeroom. Thanks.” I try to sound sincere, but I didn’t want a dumb pity flower. From him, from anyone.

Every February, the Key Club sells carnations, which are delivered to students throughout the day on Valentine’s Day. It’s never mattered to me in the least, but there are always rumors about girls giving blow jobs to win the honor of receiving the most.

The male winner is no contest. It’s yet another talent that comes effortlessly to Kane. He inspects his fingernails nonchalantly as he waits for me to pop the locks. I watch him secure the lid and toss the box into the back seat of my Jeep as if it’s his gym bag.

That’s the most perplexing thing. He doesn’t even care about the attention.

“You like what it said?” he asks.

I nod as I squeeze into the driver’s seat, cranking the heat to ward off the frigid 20-degree air. Happy Day of Suck, it’d said.

Valentine’s Day. This time last year, it’d been snowing. We’d huddled together in the backyard of his house, his arms around me, and I’d cried so hard that I couldn’t breathe. That was the last time Kane touched me.

“I was going to text you, but I forgot about your technological deficiency,” he says. “When are you going to remedy that situation?”

I haven’t had a phone in nearly a year, ever since I smashed mine. Not that I care. Other people seem to miss me having it more than I do. “Never,” I reply.

He scowls. “Your parents?”

“No. Me. I don’t want one.”

“Weirdo.”

I know. That’s actually being kind. I shrug.