“I panicked.”
She stares at me. “Panic? That was not a panic response. No, panic is telling them I’m your cousin, or better yet, a stranger you’ve never met in your life. Panic is telling them I’m another one of your fans—a fan of what, I’m not super sure, but we can get back to that after you explain why exactly your brand of panic turned us Instagram official when I don’t even know your last name!”
“There were people watching, and I didn’t want to make a scene?—”
“Oh. Right. Sorry. Because body-slamming me didn’t draw any attention.” Then her expression changes and…oh no—“Did she call you Candy Kane?”
The way she says my nickname, like it’s something distasteful, hits harder than it should.
“Chloe—”
“Brody…Kane.” I watch in horror at the exact moment it clicks into place. “You’re Brody Kane. Derek’s teammate. The guy he complains about literally every time my sister mentions hockey, which is constantly.”
She didn’t know.
She really didn’t know who I was.
And somehow that makes everything worse and better and more complicated all at once.
“You’re Maya’s sister,” I say.
She shrugs. “Mystery solved.” She turns, hiking the satchel on her shoulder.
“Wait—”
She glances back. “Why? So you can ghost me again?”
Ouch. “I can explain?—”
“Can you?” She crosses her arms. “Because I’ve spent six months trying to figure out what I did wrong. What I said. What was so terrible about me that you had to literally vanish without a word.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong?—”
“So why, then? Why bother spending the whole evening making me fall for you, only to change your mind?”
A thousand explanations run through my mind. My dad. My image. My disastrous…everything. My lips part, but nothing comes out.
“Really, Brody? Even now?” She gapes at me for a moment and then, eyes rolling to the sky, flops her arms dramatically. “Unbelievable.”
My phone starts ringing in my pocket.
Ignore it. Ignore it.
It keeps ringing.
Chloe’s lips press together. “You should get that. Sounds important.”
“Chloe, wait?—”
I pull out my phone. Rick’s name is flashing. I hit Ignore and look up, but she’s already walking away.
“Wait—” I start after her, catching her elbow.
She stops. Turns. And the look in her eyes makes me let go.
“Don’t,” she says. Not angry. Just tired. “Don’t call me. Don’t follow me. Don’t show up with some charming excuse and expect me to smile for another photo.”
She turns and walks away.
