My Bluetooth speaker connects with a cheerfuldingthat feels offensively upbeat for my current mood, and then my playlist of doom kicks in:Die, Chad, Die—aka my carefully curated collection of Taylor Swift's most bitter, soul-crushing anthems.Picture to Burn,Better Than Revenge,All You Had to Do WasStay.Basically the musical equivalent of salting the earth and torching the remains.
And oh, I crank that suckerup.Full blast. Vibrating-the-walls, sorry-neighbors level.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to erase the image of Zach and Cici in that stupid hot tub. Instead, I try to picture something more therapeutic—like taking Cici's smug little Barbie face and scrubbing that grin off with a cheese grater. Or maybe feeding her glitter lip gloss to raccoons and letting them do the work. Either way, the mental image ischef's kiss.
But of course, the hot tub reel comes back. Again. Her hands on him. His mouth on her.
My stomach twists like I swallowed glass.
I groan loudly, dragging a pillow over my face. "God, why am I like this?"
The ceiling doesn't answer. Taylor just gets louder.
I don't know how long my eyes are shut. Maybe I actually doze off. Maybe I just pass out from overdosing on angry Taylor.
Either way, my eyes snap open when I hear theshhhkof my balcony sliding door.
Shit.
I curse myself instantly. Forgot to lock it—too busy nursing my stupid, aching heart and plotting Cici's demise by cheese grater.
And there's only one person in this universe who opens that door this late. Every night, actually.
Zach Westbrook.
The one human who has permanent, no-questions-asked access to my room. No knocking. No asking. Just... waltzes in like he owns the place.
It started when we were seven. Back then, our bedrooms faced each other across the side yard. We'd drag a ladderover, climbing in and out like two little criminals sneaking past bedtime.
Sometimes it was for sleepovers. Sometimes it was to trade Pokémon cards. Most nights, it was because thunderstorms freaked me out and Zach would show up, crawl into my bed, and let me cling to his arm until I fell asleep.
One night, though, the ladder slipped. Zach fell. Broke his arm. Screamed bloody murder. (I nursed him through it, by the way. Sat with him, signed his cast, brought him snacks. Loved every pathetic second. Stupid, I know.)
After that, our parents knew that they couldn't stop us from sneaking in and out of each other's bedroom, so they did the next best thing: built a literal bridge. A wooden plank with railing and cables, suspended between our balconies like we were in some suburban version ofRomeo and Juliet.
Only less romance, more splinters. But hey—it's sturdy. It's still there.
And Zach still uses it like it's his personal sidewalk into my life.
Case in point: I push up on my elbows, turn my head, and there he is.
Cheeky, annoying, heart-melting grin.
In one hand? A can of whipped cream. In the other? Two pints of Giuseppe's Italian ice.
I almost squeal. Almost launch off the bed and hug him until my lungs pop. But then I remember. Oh, right. I'm mad at him.Sort of.
Tell that to my traitor heart, which is cartwheeling like it just got a shot of adrenaline straight to the vein.Ugh. I can never stay mad at him for long.Weak.Pathetic,my inner sass-monster groans, rolling its eyes.
Still, I commit to the bit. Fake frown locked in place, even though my mouth won't stop twitching like it's seconds from betraying me.
And Zach notices. Of course he notices.
Now he's smirking. That wicked, knowing smirk that says,Yeah, Sugarplum, I see you cracking.
Kill me now.
He steps fully inside, holding up the loot.
