Okay. I did a bad thing. I know that.
Not to Jamie. Not to her.
But Ididkind of run Ryan off the road.
That’s what he gets for driving a Vespa. And for going after my girl.
The thought hits me mid-laugh, the sound sharp and humorless in the closed space of the car.My girl?I think bitterly. That’s Jamie’s girl now.
The image of her mouth on his—the way she leaned into him like she wanted him—sends bile up my throat. I grip the steering wheel harder and mutter another curse under my breath.
I grab my Gatorade from the cup holder, the orange kind, the one I keep because it hides the taste of pills. Painkillers all thanks to my dear friend, Koa, for hooking it up with stronger shit than my uncle gets. I shake two into my palm and toss them back dry, then chase them with the drink. The plastic crackles as I squeeze it too hard.
My head’s pounding again, the bruises still raw from where Victor clocked me. My temple throbs with every heartbeat, a reminder that I can’t seem to keep myself from making bad choices.
I think I fucked up.
Not the Ryan thing. Screw Ryan.
TheJamiething.
We haven’t talked since I told him the truth. Since I tried to end whatever the hell this was with Chloe. Since everything started falling apart faster than I could keep up.
I don’t even know if we’ll ever see eye to eye again.
Jamie’s the only person who actually knows me—the only one who didn’t walk when things got ugly. And now I’ve managed to screw that up too.
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. The motion makes me wince as my fingers brush the bruise on my cheekbone. The skin is tight, still swollen. My uncle really fucked me up this time.
I reach for the stereo, needing noise, needinganythingto fill the silence before my thoughts swallow me whole. The radio crackles to life—static first, then a familiar melody I don’t expect.
Taylor Swift.
I bark out a laugh. I shouldn’t even know the song title, but I do.
This past summer, I listened to her music for two months straight. Don’t even remember how it started. Some random playlist that played on a loop when I was crashing between jobs. I never liked the music. Still don’t. But I guess it’s different now.
Because of Chloe.
Her humming that same song under her breath, on the drive reaffirmed that. That’s what I hear now, louder than the actual lyrics.
So, no. It can’t bethatbad.
I tap the steering wheel along with the beat, head tilting back against the headrest.
I can’t believe the girl in that cheerleader skirt driving a red Audi is fucking my best friend right now.
It’s absurd. The universe has a cruel sense of humor.
She’s so damn pretty, but God—whatterribletaste in music.
The corner of my mouth lifts anyway.
It’s almost laughable.
The road stretches ahead, long and empty, slick from last night’s rain. The city blurs into a haze of neon and exhaust as I merge onto the freeway.
I connect my phone, redownload the album and let it play. The whole damn thing.
