A sharp pinch blooms under my ribs, spreading until it's hard to pull a full breath. My hand presses flat against my sternum like I can shove it back down, like I can keep my traitor heart from clawing up my throat.
Pathetic. God, I hate that I even feel this. Didn't I retire from this weak-girl crap three years ago?
Remember, Caroline. Remember what he said.
I don't see her that way. I never will.
She's not... girlfriend material.
You know me. You know the girls I go for.
I don't date fat chicks.
Fat chick. You. That's you. He called you a fat chick. Remember that?
The words slam through me like glass shards, sharp and cold, each one cutting deeper than the last.
My fingers curl into fists on the tabletop, knuckles blanching, then unfurl again just as fast. Clench, unclench. Anger bubbles up, hot and acidic, burning through the ache until it's all I can taste.
I force myself to look back, ready to tear my eyes away from this whole perfect, glossy picture—Taylor on his lap, his smile stretched wide, like none of it costs him a damn thing.
And that's when it happens.
His head lifts.
His grin falters.
And my ex best friend's eyes slam straight into mine.
The bar is loud—music pounding, voices crashing, glasses clinking—but somehow, I swear I hear it.
"Sugarplum...?"
Barely there. A thread of sound. Or maybe just my memory filling in the blanks.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CAROLINE
My lungs seize. My chest feels too small, too tight, like my ribs are squeezing around a heart that's sprinting laps.
But no. Nope. Not happening.
I tear my gaze away, snapping it back to the table, to my friends—pretending. Acting. Like we weren't just locked in some stupid, silent staring contest across a crowded bar.
Maybe he doesn't recognize me. Yeah. That's it.
From head to toe, I'm not the same girl. The nut-brown hair is gone, replaced by this silver mane I actually love now, sleek and shining under the neon lights. My body's not the soft, round mess it used to be—I'm all lean lines, toned arms, a waist that actually dips in, legs that look long in these skinny black jeans. The crop top clings in ways old-me would've never dared. Even my makeup, sharp and clean, feels like armor.
He probably doesn't know it's me. Why would he?
I force myself to smile, nodding at whatever Tammy's saying, laughing when the other girls laugh, like my mind isn't a full-blown tornado. Like my pulse isn't hammering because out of my peripheral vision, I can see it—I can see him.
Zach.
Pushing Taylor off his lap. Standing.
And walking straight toward me.
