I pull back, our eyes lock, and then we’re kissing. And again, the fireworks erupt and I want nothing more than to crawl inside of him and live there forever.

Eventually he steps back far enough to meet my eyes.

I can predict what’s coming next.

“I like you. I believe you. But Jane, I’m still not going home with you.” He blows out a breath.

“I know.”

I shouldn’t have put that kind of pressure on him anyway. He can’t make time move forward. Sleeping with him won’t “fix” me. Am I using Alex in order to give myself a better sense of control?

Shame spreads through me, heating my cheeks.

Alex isn’t the one who can give me happiness, like it’s a gift to be obtained. I can’t control him, and I shouldn’t want to. If I ever get out of this blasted day and we go on a date or four, and actually sleep together, he could wake up months from now and decide he’s not into me. If I put all responsibility for my happiness onto him, that’s . . . ridiculous.

What did the psychic say? It has to come from inside.

Such an impossibility. But I have to try. Right?

I’m no better than Mark if I’m using Alex as my means of escape.

I need a break.

I take a deep breath and step back. “You mean a lot to me, Alex. Which is why I probably won’t see you for a while.”

He moves toward me. “Jane—”

“It’s okay.” I hold up a hand, letting my eyes trace over his features. “You won’t notice. I’ve got to go.”

So this is what it feels like.

To break my own heart.

Chapter Thirteen

“Sprinkle me.”

I lie in bed, listening to the song that has become an intrinsic part of my existence and waiting for the moment . . . I point a finger in the air right as the neighbor pounds on Hugo’s door.

I have the timing down to the second.

I mouth the words I know are being shouted outside, even though I can’t hear them from here over the skull-splitting music.

I lie in bed, debating if I should go to work today. What’s the point? I still get fired. I’ve tried everything I can think of and nothing works. For the past week or so, I haven’t been leaving the apartment much at all, except to get food and see if the Druid Stone is open.

It’s not.

It’s not even there. The storefront, which I swear was between a dry cleaner and a Thai place two blocks down, has disappeared, like I imagined the whole thing. I’ve walked back and forth twelve times, and . . . nothing.