Pissed off with myself, I cut out an hour before last call and disappeared upstairs before anyone could stop me. I typed out a quick text to Ivy, telling her I had a headache and was crashing early so she didn’t sound the alarm on my whereabouts and could cover for me. It was total bullshit, obviously, even if I felt dead on my feet after several sleepless nights. But she didn’t seem to question it, just sent me a simple: K.

Thinking it would help, I had opened the bottle of scotch I had buried in my closet, and wrote in my notebook until the words bled across the page and my fingers felt ready to snap off. It had to be hours before I finally stopped. The sound of a door clicking, followed by hushed voices and footsteps, alerted me to the late hour.

I recall hearing Phoebe’s too-loud voice and the jangling of keys. Her mom must have finally got off work to pick her up. Phoebe hates sleeping over places.

I frown suddenly, Will’s words finally registering. “So if you weren’t talking about that...”

Will’s brow furrows. “I was talking about what happened before Mason interrupted. I figured you wouldn’t want to talk about the past, so...”

I blink. Well, that’s...something.

But then it hits me, what he’s referring to, and I tense all over again. “Well, forget that too.”

He sighs. “Way.”

My fingers flex, itching for something I can’t name. Denial is this wicked thing inside me, coiled and ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

Run, Will. Run.

He smiles grimly. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to assume anything—”

I give a little shake of my head. “It’s fine. It’s whatever. I overreacted. I shouldn’t have jumped on you like that.”

Please stop apologizing, I beg silently.

He watches me closely. Intently. Too intently. Warning bells start going off in my head the longer he goes without saying anything. With every second that passes, the past presses down on us, harder and heavier until I fear we may no longer be able to ignore it.

My nose flares, and I’m seconds away from throwing my mug at his stupid head. Anything to break the tension. Anything to wipe that expression off his face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I practically hiss.

“How am I looking at you?” he says calmly.

Like you see right fucking through me. Like it kills you. Like I’m some damsel who needs saving by the big, strong prince.

My dad’s voice filters in my ear, whispering things I’ve tried so hard to shove down. Toxic sentiments that should not have any bearing on my life whatsoever. Not anymore.

I know better.

And yet...