“I’ll call you in a few,” he muttered, then ended the call.
“Don’t reschedule, why?” His voice softened. “Do you really think anything’s more important to me than you?”
Words stuck in my throat. I grabbed my phone and slid it into my back pocket. “It’s not that.”
“Then what?” He tossed aside the duvet and stood—naked, perfect, achingly mine.
He pulled on his boxers, and every step closer kicked my pulse higher.
“This isn’t us,” he murmured, cupping my cheek. “You used to tell me everything. So tell me now. Are you not ready to listen? Is that it?”
“Yes.” It was hard not to lean into his palm, not to wrap my arms around him and breathe him in. If I stayed, I would. And that wouldn’t solve anything. It would just drag us back to bed.
“I just need some space,” I added. “But we’ll talk. I promise.”
He ran his fingers through my hair. “Could you come over tonight? Please. I’ll cook. I need to tell you the truth. I’ve already hurt you too much.”
“Okay.”
He kissed my forehead. “Good. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
“No. You’ve got somewhere to be. I’ll take a cab.”
Agreeing went against everything in him, but Asher nodded. “Seven p.m. I’ll be waiting.”
***
The ten-minute cab ride gave me nothing but time to wrestle with the tangle of my feelings.
When I stepped into the apartment, Alba appeared in the kitchen doorway in plaid PJs, a steaming mug in her hands.
She took in my messy state, then grinned. “Knew it. On a scale of one to one hundred, how good was it?”
I chuckled, kicking off my sneakers. “A thousand. If you’ve got something to call me, speak now or forever hold your peace, Albita.”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. I’d never ever judge you.”
I stepped closer, a lump rising in my throat. “And you’d never ever lie to me, right?”
Her big green eyes met mine. “I’d never ever lie to hurt you.”
“I’ll take whatever you’re drinking,” I said. “And then you’ll answer my questions.”
“Fair enough,” she murmured, heading into the kitchen.
Minutes later, I cradled a mug, breathing in fresh coffee as we settled on the red couch. “You weren’t the one who bought all those books,” I said.
I should’ve seen it sooner. But I’d been too consumed by Asher leaving to imagine he was behind those gifts.
Alba sipped, hiding her flushed face behind the cat-patterned mug. “No. I wasn’t. In my defense”—she set the mug on the arm of the couch, like always, a habit bound to ruin the upholstery one day—“I didn’t want to be Asher’s accomplice. I was mad at him for you. But he looked so broken when he came to Willowbrook with his friend.”
“What friend?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Javier, I think? After his accident. His arm was in a sling. I swear I didn’t mean to betray you. I just… I thought it might help. When you devoured those first books in two days, I realized I was right.”
Those novels had carried me through senior year—a lifeline that’d helped me forget about my father, survive the breakup. But why would Asher leave me and then do that? The books had followed me to Mexico. Colombia. Argentina. He must’ve planned everything months ahead.
“So you kept in touch?” I asked.
