That’s Kane. Most people annoy him. I’m the only one who knows this. On the surface, he’s this happy-go-lucky guy who loves everyone. Underneath? He has this dark, glass-half-empty, biting sarcasm. That bitterness is one of the reasons I can still tolerate him. I don’t need anyone telling me, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life!” or “Time heals all wounds.” When we get together, which is rare these days, we grumble. We complain like two old men who were denied their free senior coffee at McDonald’s. “So what’s bugging you about her currently?”

“Everything. She had an attitude today.”

I scratch the side of my head and pretend to think. “Gee. Maybe it’s because you sent me a flower instead of her?”

He shakes his head like that can’t be it. “I only had two bucks. And I explained how it was to her.”

I cringe. How it was makes it seem like I’m some bald, three-legged cat he decided to adopt from the animal shelter. Like I need Kane to take care of me. I’m fine. I’m just peachy—until people start asking me how I’m doing, not in a casual, what’s up way, but in a lingering, oh you poor thing way. Whenever I answer “fine,” they always seem suspicious, as though they want me to have a nervous breakdown at their feet.

My eyes trail to Kane’s backyard. They removed the shed months ago, but there’s still a stark brown rectangle of dirt. A giant scar. So, so ugly and sad.

So unlike the Declan I knew.

I shiver, recalling the day the world tilted. The day everything got a little brighter, more intense. The day I met him.

“You okay, Hail?” Kane asks me.

I’m gripping the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles are white. I loosen my hands. “Yeah. I hope you’re doing something nice for that girlfriend of yours. Girls expect that.”

He frowns. “You don’t.”

I give him a smile and bat my eyelashes. “I’m not a girl. I’m a woman.”

He laughs like it’s the most hilarious joke in the world. Like he wasn’t the one who made me that way, if it can be said that sex makes a girl a woman. Which honestly is a crap thing to say, since it didn’t make me feel any different and it gives him way too much credit. He took my virginity, not my freaking soul. “Whatever. Today is just another day.”

He’s only saying that for my benefit. It’s not a day of suck because I have no one to share it with. I’ve never shared Valentine’s Day with anyone, ever, and I’ve survived.

Before, it was simply another day.

Now, it’s the anniversary of the worst day of our lives.