"Hey," Daryl said, joining us at the back door, looking every inch the star of the football team in his Letterman jacket and faded blue jeans.

The second my eyes locked on his, my thought process ran amuck.

I couldn’t remember a dang thing I had planned to say to Mercy.

I could barely remember to breathe oxygen into my lungs.

Because he was here.

At my party.

At my door.

Looking at me like he knew exactly who I was now.

"Hey," I croaked out, unable to tear my gaze from his. "I'm happy you could come tonight."

"Yeah, me too," he replied in a thick tone, green eyes burning holes right through me. "Can we go somewhere and talk?" His jaw ticked and he gave me a meaningful look. "In private?"

I was right.

He knew.

He remembered.

"Um…I guess," I whispered, feeling my muscles coil tight with tense anticipation. I had been waiting for this moment – our reunion – for two freaking years, but now I wasn’t so sure I wanted it to happen.

If Daryl remembered me, then he didn’t look happy about it. In fact, he looked like it physically pained him to stand here and speak to me.

The probability that my physical appearance repulsed him caused a wave of devastation to flood my heart. I didn’t look like I how I used to. Like he would have remembered me – if he remembered me at all. I had returned a very different girl to the one Daryl King had spent his childhood with. Maybe he didn’t remember us the way I did? Maybe I never meant as much to him as he had to me. Oh god, this was bad…

"You okay, Molls?" Mercy asked, dragging me from my harmful thoughts.

No.

Not even close.

I don’t think I'll ever be okay again.

"I'm fine, Mercy." I slapped on the most convincing smile I could conjure up, completely unnerved by how he continued to stare at me. "I'm going to go speak to Daryl." His green eyes burned in approval and I blew out a shaky breath, knowing full well that I was playing a leading role in breaking my own heart. "I'll see you in a bit, okay?"

7 Molly

Everything about this moment screamed serious as Daryl silently followed me into my house.

It felt like I was about to be taken into yet another principal's office and given bad news. Or worse, the dreaded doctor's office. Except what could he possibly say that would hurt me worse than his two-year stint of forgetting me had?

I used to believe that hating someone was the worst thing a person could do. I now knew it to be indifference. Indifference was a far crueler emotion to be on the receiving end of. It was cool like the storms of winter, like the ice-cold cutting sensation of hailstone tearing against your cheeks. It was the epitome of never-was. And I would much rather be a regret than a never-was.