“What is your fucking problem, Ace?”
I wince. “Okay. Nope. Aggressive. Very aggressive.”
Deep breath. New attempt.
“Why did you do all that crazy shit? Set your apartment on fire? Put yourself in all my classes? Why didn’t you tell me you were in love with me, you moron?”
I blink. “Oh my God.”
I wave that one away so hard it’s like I’m trying to bat it out of the air.
I try again.
“I miss you.”
“Kiss me, you idiot.”
I groan and slap my own forehead. “Jesus, Julia. You sound like Rory Gilmore.”
I take a deep breathand give it one more shot.
“Tell me that you’re really in love with me and not that I’m just a girl you want to keep as a backup. Tell me that you feel for me the way I feel for you. Tell me that we can fix this. Tell me that we can fix us. Tell me that I’m not too late and you haven’t moved on.”
It’s so honest, so painfully honest, that I feel like I could throw up. Which means it’s perfect.
But I choose to pace my apartment instead. Last night at the party was the most emotionally violent moment of my entire adult life. I had to see Ace with girls hanging all over him, and it hurt so damn much I could hardly breathe. I broke up with Drew, which was definitely needed, but not easy telling someone how shitty of a human being you’ve been toward them and that you’re in love with another guy.
I slept like shit. And now, I’m a disaster in a hoodie, talking to herself in the mirror.
Screw it.
I grab my phone off the counter and march across the hall before I can psych myself out again. I knock once. Twice. And then step back, heart practically in my throat.
No answer.
I wait thirty more seconds. Press my ear to the door like a total weirdo.
Still nothing.
Of course, my brain takes the open invitation to spiral.
Maybe he’s at Scarlett’s apartment.
Maybe she’s inhis.
Maybe I waited too long. Dated Drew too long. Said all the wrong things, held everything back for way too many years when I should’ve let it out. Maybe I was too harsh on him when he told me he was in love with me.
MaybeI’mthe problem. Maybe I ruined this. Us—if there even is an “us” anymore.
I exhale shakily, step away from his door, and pull out my phone again.
I send a text to the people who might be able to distract me from this identity-level tailspin.
Me: You guys around? I need greasy food and friends who won’t let me cry into mozzarella sticks.
Three dots pop up immediately.
Scottie: I’m in.
