—OH MY GOD I’LL BE THERE SOON

—SHEESH

I better get these tacos to the hotel before Milo starts eating his own arm off. If there’s one thing about teenage boys that’s absolutely true, it’s that they are a freaking black hole of food. Like, I’ve never seen someone eat so much in my entire life.

“Monster?”

I freeze. I know that voice. That deep, captivating timbre. A lump lodges in my throat.

This can’t be real life.

But when I turn, I realize that this is most definitely real life. He-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named is standing right behind me, a curious look on his adorable face. His brown hair is long and swirled back into a man bun and there’s a little stubble on his cheeks, but it’s patchy and doesn’t quite pull off the hipster vibe I know he’s going for. But otherwise he looks exactly the same—sporting a gamer T-shirt that barely covers his biceps, and jeans, and Vans, and God why does my heart unexpectedly feel so heavy and awful?

“It is you!” he says, and his curious expression quickly morphs into a smile that looks sincere.

The barista calls another name and a Ghostbuster squeezes past. We take the cue and step to the side. He pulls me into a hug and I prickle at his touch. I don’t return the embrace, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh man, Imogen, it’s so great to see you!”

LIAR.

He lets go and looks me up and down. From my black jeans to my probably not-so-clean black hoodie to my black SPACE QUEEN beanie pulled over a pink pixie that definitely needs a wash.

For one inconceivable moment, I wonder if he approves—

APPROVES?

What am I, some heroine in a nineteenth-century romance novel?

Ugh, I hate my feelings sometimes. I hate the inexplicable way my brain works. And I hate the way he chews on his bottom lip, and the sea-glass-green color of his eyes, and the way his voice is always so soft and rich and tender, even when it’s really not. I hate—

All of it.

Not in a secretly-love-him sort of way, but in a we-dated-for-nine-months-and-he-stood-me-up-at-the-ExcelsiCon-Ball-and-then-dumped-me-in-a-text-message sort of way.

I yank down my beanie, avoiding his gaze. “Hey. What do you want?”

He looks hurt. “I’m just happy to see you—I thought I’d see you this year. Your, uh, fandom thing is really something. Excited about the news that just leaked?”

I try to ask “What news?” but he just talks over me.

“You always go in with a bang, don’t you, Monster?”

Every time he calls me that I feel like my skin is on fire, and I don’t know whether it’s because I still like him or because I detest him so viciously I want to raze his crops and salt his fields.