I glance across the car to her. She’s looking out of the window, quiet. Tense. Do I want to fix this? Yes, the feelings I felt were amazing, but this? This anger? It’s not me, and it doesn’t feel good at all. How can someone drive you to the highest heights of desire and to the deepest depths of despair?

I return my attention to the road, mulling that over for the rest of the journey as Ava gives me short, snappy directions. I’ve still not found an answer by the time we’re in her neighborhood.

“It’s left at the end of the road,” she says, clipped. I do a left. “Just there on the right.”

I pull in, and she’s out of the car like a bullet. “Ava,” I call, reaching for her keys to hand back. The door is slammed, and she’s up the garden path to the front door fast. I peer up at the house. It’s small. Modest. Cute.

I look down at her keys in my hand, thinking.

Just for a second.

Then I throw them on the seat and roar off.

6

I fall back against the door of my rental, looking at the ceiling. My fucking jaw is aching like a bitch, my body still wired, every inch of me tense. My eyes land on the cabinet, the surface bare. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, in and out, in and out. She ran. It’s time for me to walk away.

But there’s something. I know I’m a total fuck-up, but I’m not completely delusional.

I hope.

My hands come up to my head, and I attempt to force the images and words away. My heartbeat feels sluggish. My head aches. My stomach is constantly twisting, whether with anxiety or anticipation. I can’t let this rule me. I feel more destructive now than I ever have.

Self-sabotage. I’m a master at it, and it seems Miss O’Shea could be both a cause and the cure.

My hands are shaking. Drink. I need a drink. “Fuck.” I stalk to the fridge, grabbing a jar of my vice and taking it to the couch. Tossing the lid aside, I scoop out a huge dollop and shove my finger in my mouth, pulling off the peanut butter and closing my eyes. Rest. I just need to rest my eyes and my mind for a moment.

Jake frowns at me across the lounge as I work my way happily through the jar. “You’re gross,” he mutters, disappearing out of the room and returning a few moments later. He drops down on the couch next to me and unscrews the lid of his own jar. “Crunchy all the way.” He shoves his finger in his pot of crunchy peanut butter and shovels out a big helping, wrapping his grinning mouth around his finger.