My head’s buzzing by the time we leave the rooftop bar. Heather’s skin is flushed, and she’s laughing like she’s the only person in Portland who matters.
“Hey, let’s stop in there,” she says, pointing to a small bar tucked into a corner, a few people hanging outside, smoke driftingup in lazy spirals.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get too drunk.”
She scoffs. “Fartoo late for that.” She grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door. The bell above the entrance jingles as we step inside, the warmth and dim light swallowing us. The scent of spilled beer, fried food, and something sweet hits me. Music thumps softly, bass vibrating through the wooden floor.
Heather ducks under a low-hanging light, already flirting with some guy by the jukebox, and I let myself drift toward the back. The bar’s crowded but not suffocating.
An hour later, I’m swirling the last bit of wine in my glass, watching the red liquid catch the dim light. We talk, gossip, and laugh until the buzz of the wine and the music starts to blur into the line between buzzed and drunk.
I stand, stretching my legs, and mutter, “I need some air.”
Heather smiles, downing the rest of her drink. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just the alcohol makes me hot.”
She lifts her hand to request the check. “I’ll get this, go pee, and then I’ll meet you outside? Our hotel is a short walk away.”
I nod, warmth buzzing through my head. “Sounds good.” I push through the door into the night, the chill of the alley wrapping around me.
Two figures stand a few feet away, half-hidden in shadow, smoke curling upward in the cold air. The alley smells like rain-soaked pavement, cheap beer, and whatever sweet thing the street vendor on the corner was cooking.
None of it registers.
My lungs stop mid-breath. My body forgets how to function.
He’s leaning against the brick wall. Black jeans. Black hoodie. A cigarette between his fingers. His hair is longer than I remember—messy, falling into his eyes like he’s been dragging his hands through it all night.
And his eyes—
Oh my god.
They’re sharp and blown-out, feverish in a way that makes something deep in my stomach twist. He looks hollowed yet wired, like something’s been chewing him apart from the inside. His jaw is sharper than it used to be. He’s older, harder, tired...buthim.
The boy who left me on my porch.
The voice that lived in the back of my skull long after he disappeared.
The ghost I never stopped dreaming about.
His hazel eyes widen when they lock on mine, and for a second, I forget how to swallow.
Jude Graves.
Beside him, the other man straightens, shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes shadowed and wary. He takes one look at me and tenses, like he knows exactly who I am and what this moment means.
Before I can move, two more figures burst into the alley—a man in a suit jacket, blonde hair slicked back, and a dark-haired woman in sequins and heels. They’re shouting, hands flying, words sharp and too fast for me to catch. It seems like a very heated argument. They don’t even notice me.
Jude does. And then he looks away, like he doesn’t want to acknowledge me.
My heart slams so hard against my ribs, I swear he must hear it. Adrenaline hits all at once—my hands tremble, my stomach flips. I want to go to him. I want to scream at him. I want to run.
You died, Jude. I watched you die.
I’m so scared for you.
My body doesn’t know which instinct to obey.
