I didn’t cry. I refused to.
I’d already wasted too many tears on Owen. On the idea of Owen and me. On the possibility that he kept dangling in front of me before snatching it away every single time.
I pulled out my phone, ordered an Uber, and walked to the elevator on legs that felt like they belonged to someone else.
The doors closed, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored walls, smudged makeup, and tangled hair.
I looked like a mess, and I felt worse.
But at least now I knew. Now I could stop hoping for something that was never going to happen. I could finally, finally start moving on.
The elevator reached the ground floor, and I stepped out into the lobby. The bright morning sunlight made my head pound and my eyes water. Or maybe that was the tears I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.
CHAPTER 20
HARLOW
I was sotired I could feel it in my bones.
My eyes burned like someone had rubbed sandpaper across them. Every time I blinked, my eyelids tried to stage a mutiny and stay closed.
I had been in the library since four o’clock. Eight hours of staring at diagrams of the human muscular system, of memorizing the origins and insertions of muscles I couldn’t pronounce.
At some point, I put my head down on the desk and woke up forty-five minutes later with keyboard imprints on my cheek.
Classy. Very classy.
The security guard gently suggested I call it a night around eleven, but I ignored him because I had three more muscle groups to memorize, an exam tomorrow, and absolutely no life to go home to anyway.
But now it was midnight, the library was closing, and even my stubborn refusal to admit defeat couldn’t keep me vertical anymore.
I shoved my laptop into my bag.
The security guard gave me a sympathetic nod as I shuffled toward the exit, my feet dragging against the carpet.
The parking lot was nearly empty when I pushed through the glass doors. The cool air hit me like a slap, sharp enough to wake me up for approximately three seconds before the exhaustion settled back in, heavier than before.
I fumbled for my keys, finding them in the front pocket of my backpack, and beeped my car unlocked.
I slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key.
Nothing.
Not even a pathetic attempt at turning over. Just silence, like my car had simply given up on life.
“No.” I turned the key again, my exhausted brain struggling to process that it wasn’t going to start. “No, no, no, no, no.”
Nothing.
“Are you kidding me?” I slammed my palm against the steering wheel, which accomplished nothing except hurting my hand. “Seriously? Tonight?”
The car, predictably, did not respond.
I dropped my head back against the headrest and stared at the ceiling, too tired to even cry about it. Counting to ten seemed like too much effort. Counting to five was pushing it. I settled for closing my eyes and breathing, and trying not to think about how very badly I wanted to be horizontal in my bed right now.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone. The screen was too bright in the darkness as I scrolled to my dad’s contact. It would be, I did the mental calculation, which took three times longer than it should have, around 7 AM in Spain. Early, but not unreasonably so.
He picked up on the third ring, his voice slightly groggy. “Harlow? Everything okay?”
