“I’m so, so sorry,” I say again, my voice barely audible. “I didn’t plan this. I didn’t want it to go like this with us, but I feel like I’m lying to myself. And I’m lying to you. And I don’t want to keep doing that.”
“So, this is it?” His face hardens. “You’re literally breaking up with me?”
My eyes sting. “You’re great, Drew. You’re kind. You’ve been patient with me, and I’ve been trying so hard to be the girl who deserves that. Be the girl who you deserve. But I’m not that girl for you.”
I look down at my bandaged hand, the reminder of everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours pressing down like a weight on my chest. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I say. “But I think staying with you would hurt you more.”
He stares at me like he’s trying to find the version of me he thought he knew somewhere inside this mess.
And then he simply…shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t call me a bitch for kissing another guy while we were together.
He just walks away.
And leaves me standing there alone.
Tears slip from my eyes almost immediately. I blink them back, trying not to let them fall, but it’s impossible. Everything feels like a disaster. A slow-motion, heart-wrecking disaster of my own making, and I am definitely the bitch for breaking the heart of an actual good guy.
I step out of the alcove and glance toward the dance floor again.
Ace.
He’s still surrounded by other girls. Scarlett’s with him again, all long legs and fake horns and devilish confidence. She leans in close, wraps an arm around his shoulders, and whispers something in his ear.
And then he looks up. Right at me.
Our eyes lock—for just a second.
But it’s enough to make my chest cave in on itself.
I look away first, and I don’t wait around. Don’t stop to explain or fix anything.
I hightail it to the nearest exit and leave.
Saturday, November 1st
Ace
My head’s still pounding, and I swear there’s glitter in myear canal.
I’ve showered twice, but somehow, I still feel like I smell like fog machine and stale beer.
And now, instead of sleeping in or eating my weight in hash browns at Zip’s Diner, I’m walking into my parents’ penthouse because my mom texted me no fewer than fifty times this morning to get here. She said it was a 9-1-1 emergency.
The elevator dings, and I step out to my mom standing in the foyer like she’s been waiting for me.
“Finally,” she says, stepping aside and waving me farther into the penthouse like I’m late for a court-ordered appearance. “Come collect your crap.”
“Wow, Mom. Good morning to you too.”
She huffs out a breath and leads me to the kitchen, where a box is sitting on the island. It’s busted open and overflowing with ancient Ace artifacts like old charging cords, faded notebooks, and a paint-stained hoodie from high school.
“I figured since you’re such a grown man now,” she says, dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulder, “you can finally take responsibility for the museum exhibit you left in your closet.”
“I don’t even remember owning half of this stuff.”
“That tracks.”
“And why in the hell is it so important that I comeget this boxtoday?” I question. “I mean, from what I can see, it seems like you can throw it all away.”
