“Fuck— sorry— I—” Remy stammers.
“It’s fine,” Henry grimaces, nose scrunched in disgust.
Remy scrambles for napkins, but Henry holds up a hand to stop him. As much as it pains me to see my sunshine so distraught, I can’t pretend it’s not satisfying as shit to watch the laser-whitening poster boy rise from his seat covered in a thick layer of custom latte.
“Maybe we can meet—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Henry mutters, cutting Remy off and waddling to the door without a backward glance.
I’m still gloating when a chillingly vicious voice snarls, “What the fuck iswrongwith you?”
When I look at Remy, I'm met with ice-cold fury. The glimpse of light I witnessed earlier has been extinguished. My stomach drops.
He shakes his head slowly.
“Stay the hell away from me.”
I refuse to drop his hardened stare.
“I can’t.”
His eyes close.
“Please,” he whispers.
And.
My.
Heart.
Breaks.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
Because I am sorry… for not being able to let him go again.
8
Win
Six Years Ago
“Have you decided, Winnie?” Mom asks between nibbles of cheese from the charcuterie board she made after school. She’s the only one allowed to call me that ridiculous nickname without getting a fist in the face.
I pick at the chipped black polish on my thumb.
When Dad called to ask if I’d like to spend winter break with him, my knee-jerk reaction was to look up flights. But after the other night at Remy’s, I’m second-guessing my chance to hightail it out of Fort Manor.
Did Remy and I discuss what happened a week ago?
No.
Are we acting like nothing has changed?
Yes.
Am I jerking offat leastonce a day to the memory of him hard and on top of me?
