She's right, he's hot. But Slava is hotter.Shut. Up. Nora.
He's blond. Slava's hair is so dark it's almost black. This guy's tan. Slava's fair. His skin looks smooth from here. Slava has more scars than I've ever managed to count, and I used to trace every single one of them. This guy's maybe average height. My Slava—
My Slava who?
He's not mine anymore.
"Okay, but seriously," Darla says, leaning across the table toward me, "stop being so socially awkward."
"Rude," I say.
"Accurate," Emily adds.
"You two are supposed to be my support system."
"We are supporting you," Darla says. "Right into that man's DMs."
"Oh my God, guys, he's coming over," Emily says suddenly, sitting up straight. "Fluff your hair, Nora. Fluff it."
"I'm not fluffing my—"
"Fluff. It."
Despite myself, I do. Because I want to forget. I want to forget Slava tonight, even though he seems to be burned permanently into the back of my mind.
I want to enjoy myself. Let loose. Prove to myself that I actually can move on.
So when he reaches the table, I dance with him. I let his hands linger on my waist. I laugh at his stupid jokes.
And after, I take him home with me.
And I hope, quietly, that it wasn't the wrong decision.
Chapter Five
Nora
This was so stupid. A decision made purely out of ego, out of some desperate need to proveto myself—and to Slava—that I could move on.
But it's a lie.
I'm still in love with Slava.
And now I'm driving back to my sister's cabin with a stranger in the passenger seat. Inez won't mind; she's always told me to treat her place like my own. But I still feel like I'm breaking some unspoken girl code, bringing a random man back to her house in the middle of the night.
I grimace as his phone rings for the tenth time in the last half hour. He keeps declining the call and texting frantically instead. Is he—is he in the middle of a fight with another girl while he's on his way to get some from me?
Thankfully, there's no traffic, so the drive shouldn't take more than half an hour. But it feels like it's never going to end.
At one point, he actually answers, hisses, "You pushed me to this!" into the phone, and hangs up before whoever it is can respond.
God. It seems like we're both using each other tonight.
He hasn't said more than four words to me since we got in the car, choosing to text whoever's on the other end instead. When the cabin finally comes into view, it's like hearing church bells. Finally.
"This is me," I say a little awkwardly as I park.
He puts his phone down and pounces before I've even taken my seatbelt off, so unexpectedly that I flinch. His mouth on mine feels wrong. His tongue against mine feels filthy—and not in the good way. His hand slides back to find the messy bun I threw my hair into before we left, fisting into it, and it doesn't feel like anything at all.
