She yawns again. “You’re too nice, and also I’d rather talk to you than sleep.”

Too nice is not something most people say about me. And the fact that she’s willing to go without sleep for me is what I didn’t want.

I lean against my kitchen counter, eyes transfixed on the screen, even though I can’t see her. “Everything okay?”

“I just miss hearing your voice. In real time. Not like through a video clip. How was work?”

I tell her all about my failed drug test, and how Connor didn’t even care that I smoked weed. When I end the story, Willow says, “He’s right, you know. You’re going to figure out what you want to create faster than you think.”

Her confidence in me is like a drug. I close my eyes and grip the edge of the counter. It hurts to be away from someone you love so much. God, it fucking hurts.

“Garrison,” Willow breathes. “Are you still there?”

I swallow a lump in my throat. “Yeah.”

A beat passes before she says, “You remember the night we had sex.”

I stop breathing. It’s impossible to forget that night. Everything about it was incredible. And I’ve spent most nights remembering what it felt like to be inside of her. Afterwards, I always try not to think about when it’ll happen again. Because likely—it’s not going to be anytime soon.

We agreed I wouldn’t fly out to visit until her second semester because if I’m up there with her, there’s a chance the media will start hovering around Wakefield. Give it some months. Let her settle in.

I still believe that.

But the hornier part of me—that thinks with the wrong head—isn’t fucking thrilled about it. Of course I want to touch her. I want to physically be with her.

I think about her words right now: you remember the night we had sex.

“I remember,” I tell her. “It was a good night. The best night.”

“So you’re not upset about it?” she asks, worry in her voice. “You don’t think it’s goodbye sex, right?”

Jesus. “No, Willow. It wasn’t goodbye sex.” My pulse races. “If it were, we would have broken up. We’re still together.” Fuck. “Aren’t we?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Willow says, and I imagine her frowning.

We’re on separate pages. Separate books. Shit, we’re literally on different continents. I don’t know how to jump back. “Willow, you’re my girl.”

“What about the broken heart?” she asks.

I rack my brain for a second, trying to figure out what she’s talking about. “What…broken—” Oh shit. I pinch the bridge of my nose, remembering. “The questionnaire.”

I can barely even explain what overcame me to want to fill one out. I was on Tumblr and scrolled past it, and it just reminded me of her. It was enough to quickly fill in the questions. But why did I have to answer with a broken heart?

I’m an idiot.

Willow says, “I just thought that since I left after we had sex, you were upset about it.”