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Nope. Not anymore.

"I loved you," I said.

Her breath caught and I saw a glimpse of remorse. Or maybe it was just gas, at this point I wouldn’t pretend to be an expert on my best friend.

"I know," she said quietly.

"No. I don't think you do. You were my best friend. I would've done anything for you."

"I know." She reached for me.

I stepped back out of her reach. "I'm done."

"Mikayla—"

"I hope you can be happy. Enjoy the wedding."

I walked away. Not because I was strong. Because if I stayed another second, I'd cry. And I refused to give anyone the satisfaction of knowing that those two people had activated my tear ducts.

I barely made it onto Cupid’s Arrow patio before a warm drop slid down my cheek. Perfect. Now my face was leaking.

Behind me, music spilled from the bar. Laughter rang out, and the line dancing was still going strong. Good for them. Personally, I was considering arson.

I gripped the railing on the patio that overlooked the ocean. The moonlight shimmered off its surface, creating a silver river. I could feel the walls closing in on me. I could feel a panic attack gaining momentum.

Breathe. I told myself. I'd survived market crashes and a root canal without sufficient anesthesia. I could survive discovering my entire teenage love story was a lie.

It wasn’t even Kenny I was crying over. I had negative-zero interest in him. I was crying for the girl I'd been before him. The one who trusted people. Who believed love meant something. Who didn't analyze every interaction for hidden motives.

I'd convinced myself being careful meant being smart. That keeping people at a distance meant being independent. Then Damon Lockhart came along with his stupid dimples, ridiculous charm, and ability to make me feel things I'd spent years training myself not to feel.

Another tear slipped down my cheek. I sniffed and wiped it away.

"Well, this is unacceptable. I specifically ordered a happy girlfriend.” Damon’s deep voice sounded behind me.

I didn’t turn around. I didn’t want him to see me like this. "Do you have a sixth sense for my emotional breakdowns?"

"No, that’s ridiculous,” he scoffed as if the mere suggestion was utterly ludicrous. “I set up a Google alert.”

Without prior approval, my lips curled at the edges. Smiling had become a knee-jerk reaction to Damon. When he spoke, it was the equivalent of the doctor tapping my patellar tendon. I had no control over it, it was a reflex action.

"I brought you a drink, but now I'm thinking it should have been chocolate or a shovel, maybe both."

My smile grew even wider. He had a way of disarming people, causing them to let their guard and pretenses down. It was unnerving.

He stepped beside me, leaned against the railing, and offered me a glass with salt around the rim.

"Is that tequila?"

"Mostly."

"Mostly?"

"There's some lime. For your health." He winked.

I took it. "You’re impossible."

He shrugged. "Been called worse."