There’s ice.
“So,” he says, his voice so flat it sends a chill through me, “I was the replacement. The distraction. The way to get back at him—or forget him.”
“No!” I step toward him. “I mean—maybe at first, yes, that was the intention, but then it was you. It was incredible because it was you.”
“But you didn’t know who I was,” he shoots back, a bitter smile that never reaches his eyes.
“I was just a body. A nameless body to erase someone else’s name.”
He drags a hand over his face, suddenly looking exhausted.
“I…” He lets out a nervous half-laugh, then stops.
I grab the sleeve of his jacket. “Cohen, please—”
But my voice breaks. I don’t know how to finish.
What am I supposed to say?
You caught my attention instantly.
You made me feel good.
You weren’t a mistake.
He looks at my hand on his jacket. He doesn’t pull away—but he doesn’t cover it with his own.
He stays still.
And that passive rejection hurts more than a slap.
Suddenly, a cheerful horn blasts through the air.
Loud pop music booms from the base camp speakers.
“ATTENTION, CONTESTANTS!” Aunt Tina’s voice booms, amplified and grotesquely enthusiastic compared to our private implosion.
A massive hot-pink bus, decorated with hearts and bows, rolls into the main parking lot, kicking up snow and mud.
“SURPRISE! Today is visitation day! Grab your tissues, because someone very special is here to see you!”
I turn toward the bus, then back to Cohen.
He’s staring at the colorful vehicle with a hollow look.
“Cohen…”
“We need to go,” he says. He bends down, picks up his mic from the log, and clips it back onto his belt with mechanical movements.
“No, wait! We can’t leave it like this. Please—say something. Yell at me. Call me a bitch. Just don’t… don’t shut me out.”
He looks at me.
His hazel eyes are dull. The light I’d seen ignite over the past few days is gone.
“I’m not yelling at you, Sloane. I…” He exhales, like it physically hurts.
“I need to calm down. I need to think. I can’t talk to you right now.”
