But she is gone. She’s gone, and she’s not coming back, even if Mason doesn’t want to accept that yet. She’s gone, and we’re here, and this is what we’re left with.

We clean up and gather our things. Mason flips off the light as I head upstairs.

The bar is empty and the air is a cool balm on my overheated skin. A much-needed relief compared to the sweat-fest downstairs. At least there’s a wall dividing the gym from our studio. I couldn’t imagine having to play in a room that smells like old gym socks.

“Go easy on Will, okay?”

My steps pause. “This again?”

He reaches my side and cocks his head. “Are you seriously going to hold a grudge for something he did over ten years ago?”

I stiffen. “He told you?”

“What? No. Just that you had a misunderstanding...I mean, feel free to tell me, ‘cause otherwise, I’m just going to assume you’re being spiteful just for the sake of being spiteful.”

I clear my throat and flash him a megawatt smile. “What can I say? I’m a Scorpio. Blame it on the stars.”

He gives me a funny look. “Your birthday’s in May, dude. You’re a fucking Taurus.”

I stare at him.

He rolls his eyes. “Shut up. You know Phoebe and Ivy are all about that shit.”

“Sure.” I nod. “And you’re what again? A Liarbra?”

He snorts and shoves my shoulder. “Fuck off, asshole.”

And just like that, we’re back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Upstairs, I just about reach my room at the end of the hall when Mason stops me.

“I mean it, Way. Go easy on him. He’s not here for the reasons you think.”

What the hell?

Studying my best friend, I realize he’s being dead serious. I work my jaw and focus on some distant spot above his head.

“We’re cool, man,” I finally say. “We hashed shit out last night outside before he left.”

He frowns as if he’s not quite sure I’m telling the truth. It stings, but I’m careful to not let him see it.

“Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me,” I say, reaching back for the doorknob.

He mutters a curse. “Way—”

“It’s fine. We’re fine.”

Before he can try to argue, I duck into my room and close the door with my back.

I look up at the ceiling and whisper, “Everything’s fucking fine.

Nothing is fine.

Hours later, I have my laptop open. The Facebook I don’t even use is open on my browser, pictures of a guy I don’t know flicking across my screen with each click of the mousepad.

Zayne Marshall.

My finger hovers on the next picture, and I swallow the rock that’s been wedged in my throat since I first stumbled upon his page.