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“After Magda smothered it with ice cream.”

“Maybe that’s the secret.” I smear chocolate on my lips. “It’s the process, not the result.”

“I like the taste of that.” Jonathan leans in and kisses me, licking off every bit of chocolate from my lips. My neck. My—

Oh honey,” Danika says, sitting next to me on the couch as I ugly cry into one of my mom’s decorative pillows.

“We had a feeling.” Jaz sits on the other side of me, and Darcy kneels on the floor by my legs, her hands on my knees.

“We brought ice cream.” Jaz sets the grocery bag on the coffee table.

“And marshmallows,” Darcy chirps.

I cry harder.

“And darts with little hearts with all the reasons love is stupid and Valentine’s Day sucks.” Danika gives me a wicked grin, twirling a dart between her fingers.

I snot-laugh. “Fuck Valentine’s Day!”

The girls echo my sentiment.

“I miss him so much.” I collapse into the circle of my friends.

There’s an emptiness inside of me. All that’s left are raw edges and hollow spaces. All the parts that belong to him, that will always belong to him—they’re screaming in pain.

Are you Jonathan Reeves?”

The question turns me around. I find a guy about my age resting against the office building.

“Who wants to know?” I ask skeptically. I’ve had many reasons to ask over the years.

“I’m Conrad Shortz, a reporter with—”

I cut him off. “I’m all set.” It doesn’t matter what paper he’s with or why he’s here. I don’t talk to reporters. They’ve shown up many times over the years since my father stabbed me—the year I was meant to graduate high school. I’m not the story. I’m just the headline. The true story will never be told. My father made sure of that.

The reporter continues to trail after me to the parking lot. “I’m following up on a story I wrote last year. I contacted your fiancée—”

I spin on him. He takes a step back. “Don’t contact her again.” His eyes widen at the threatening tone. I take a breath to keep my voice even. Sadie shouldn’t be harassed because of my family’s shame. “There’s nothing to follow up on. The story ended the day you wrote it. Leave it alone.”

I disappear around the corner and get into my truck, slamming the door. This is why I need to distance myself. Why I can’t get involved with anyone. I can’t expose the secrets and then expect them not to affect everyone around me. I can’t allow anyone else to be hurt.

What does that mean exactly?” Rachel asks while we’re sitting at a restaurant that Sunday. I stayed away all week. At first begging off, claiming to have caught the flu and worked from home. But I can’t completely ignore her. We still have to work on this project together.

“I just need to focus on some personal things for a while. And I think it’ll be good if we have a little space.” How do I explain, without explaining? I don’t want Rachel to think she did anything wrong. But the reporter found me easily, and I don’t need him showing up at Rachel’s or work, interrogating everyone.

“Space? Are we… done?” She waves the server down for another lemon drop. “I thought you said you were having fun?”

I’m silent. That’s the thing. It has been fun the couple of times we’ve gone out. Even hanging out with Emma’s been good. I know this isn’t coming out right.

“Happy Valentine’s Day! Would you like to buy a rose?”

A woman with a basket full of roses stands beside me. Rachel averts her teary eyes. I’m the asshole who looks like he’s ending things in a restaurant on Valentine’s Day. Fuck.

“We should go.” I stand and lay some bills on the bar, not caring if I’m overpaying.

“Well, aren’t you lucky,” the woman tells Rachel when she hands them to her.

“I don’t understand.” Rachel’s voice is small and delicate.