“People on the internet are idiots,” Dex says quickly. “You know that.”
“Yeah,” I say. It comes out like air leaking from a tire.
Also, they are not completely wrong. I did walk into her life after the train wreck. I knew that. I accepted it. I just didn’t think I would have to watch the world label me like a placeholder in the comments section.
“Come on,” Eli says. “Let us get out of here before some fan recognizes us and live streams this whole scene.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
I turn away from the window.
I do not look back.
I keep my eyes forward and pretend that if I don’t look anywhere else, the hollow ache in my chest will stay quiet long enough for me to breathe.
Chapter seventeen
Annabelle
Mark is already sitting when I walk into the café, like he thinks being early earns him redemption points.
The place is stupidly cute. Exposed brick, hanging plants, baristas in beanies pulling espresso like they are creating art instead of caffeine. Sunlight spills through the big front windows and turns the whole room golden.
It does not touch me.
I am iced from the inside out.
He spots me and stands, that familiar movie-star smile sliding into place. It is charming. It is polished. It has talked a lot of people into a lot of bad decisions.
Today he is wearing a baseball cap, dark glasses and is approaching me from a corner in the back.
“Annabelle,” he says, stepping around the table like he might hug me.
I shift out of reach and drop my purse on the empty chair. “Sit. I don’t have a lot of time.”
An odd expression crosses his face, something like surprise, maybe irritation, before he smooths it over and sits back down. There is a latte in front of him and a second mug waiting across from it, steam curling up.
“I ordered your usual,” he says. “Almond milk, half...”
“No, thank you.” I push the mug to the side without sitting. “This isn’t a date.”
The woman at the next table glances over. Mark follows her eyes and gives her a practiced little grin, like he’s fine, just a guy having a difficult but necessary conversation with the one that got away. I can’t tell if she recognizes him, or us. I’m wearing a hat and a scarf to be discreet.
I finally sit, because my legs are trembling and I don’t need that added to the show.
“Why did you want to meet?” I ask, cutting straight through the small talk he is clearly dying to trot out.
He exhales like he’s been waiting for that cue. “Because things have gotten… out of hand. The song, the press. I thought we should talk privately before...”
“You thought we should talk before I ruin your tragic-lost-love storyline by telling the world you cheated,” I say.
His jaw flexes.
Bullseye.
“It’s not like that,” he says.
“Really?” I lean back, cross my arms. “Because you wrote a song about me, went on radio shows, and let every DJ spin it as some soul-baring confession about how you’re still in love with me. And you never once corrected them.”
