That felt good.

Maybe better than the coffee.

Well, okay, let's not get hasty.

I square my shoulders, sitting up, a little proud of myself for finally having a good comeback when I really needed one.

"That was a mistake."

I raise my brows. "A mistake you made five times?" That I'm aware of...

He grimaces. "I know, I was weak. But it didn't mean anything. And I tried explaining myself, but every time I got anywhere near you, Bridge acted like your bodyguard. I couldn't even speak to you."

I sigh because just like that, all those memories are rushing through the floodgate, pouring into the forefront of my thoughts. The night I found him. The way I screamed at him. The way I cried myself hoarse. The way Bridge found me sobbing in the shower of our apartment hours later. The way she held me and rubbed my back. And the way she did what every best friend should, told him off and kept him as far away as possible for the rest of the school year. In hindsight, it's easy to say that I never really loved John, not the way I should have after being with him for over three years. But in the moment, my heart was broken.

"Let's not rehash the past," I murmur. His brown eyes soften, edged with guilt. "Why are you here? Why now, after so long?"

"Because I didn't realize what I had until it was gone, and I wanted to talk to you so many times, but I was too afraid of what you'd say. And then I got a job offer in New York, and I figured it was a sign, maybe from God, that we were meant to be together. And I want to start the New Year off right, the way things were supposed to be, with you."

"John," I say, voice hard.

But he shakes his head, reaching out, grabbing my hands. His feel is familiar, but there's nothing when his skin touches mine. No spark. No fire. Not even pain or nostalgia or anger. I'm blank, unaffected.

"Skye," he urges, "I'm a different person now. I realized after we broke up that I wasn't being myself. I was too worried about my family, about my parents' values, their expectations, about what they would think. I never stopped to think about what I wanted, what I needed." He squeezes my fingers, pleading. "But I want you. We were so good together. Just give me a second chance."

Gently, I extricate my fingers, slipping them from his grasp. And though I came here fully intending to rip him a new one, I find myself weakening. Because he's not a bad person, not really. Oh, he was a total jerk to me, don't get me wrong. But he was confused and finding himself, and I just happened to be the one he had to screw over in the process of self-discovery. In an odd way, I get it.

But I'm over it.

I've moved on.

"I'm happy for you," I start. He frowns immediately, retreating, already aware where the rest of my words are going. But I say them anyway, as nicely as I can. "But I just don't feel anything for you anymore. And I'm with someone else. So-"

"Bridget's brother?" he interrupts snidely.

Okay, forget everything I just said. He's still an asshole. And my well of inner loathing is still full to the brim, totally fed up with him.

I refuse to answer.

I just stare at him, nostrils flaring as my rage comes back to life.

"I saw you sneak out of his bedroom," he comments, completely judgmental and obnoxiously sexist. Clearly, he hasn't changed as much as he thinks he has. The weasel is sneaking back out of hiding. "If you're so happy and in love, then why are you going around behind your friend's back?"

I lift my eyebrows about as high as they can go. "I'm sorry, are you lecturing me about keeping secrets? Pot. Kettle. Black."

"My situation was completely different."

"Why, because you're a guy? And I was just your girlfriend?"

He falls back in his seat, crossing his arms, but remains notably silent. And in that moment, I can't help but ask myself what I'm doing here. Why am I appeasing his ego? Why am I wasting my time talking to him?

So I stand, downing the last bit of my coffee. "Well, this was horrible. Let's not do it again. Goodbye, John."

"Skye," he counters lamely.

But I shake my head.

"Hey," he says, latching on to my arm as I walk by. I look down at his hand and pause before meeting his eyes. They're not the innocent muddled brown I remember. Now they're sharp and calculating and as hard as oak. "Give me one chance."

I pry each of his fingers off one by one. "I just did."

John stands, trying to be intimidating, but he's really not that tall or that large, especially now that I'm used to having Ollie's broad frame by my side. His words, however, are a different story.

"One date," he murmurs darkly.

"Or what?"

But he doesn't answer. He just holds my gaze, daring me to find out. And I don't have to ask. Because once an asshole, always an asshole.

I sigh, exasperated. "Do you really think acting like this is going to win me back?"

He shrugs. "Give me one date, and we'll see."

And I want to walk away.

I want to say no.

But I can't.

Because he's just enough of a jerk that I know he'll follow through. And I can't risk it. I have too much to lose.

"I'll text you."

Even though I knew I should have explained, should have said something to Bridge and Ollie about the meeting with John, I walked straight into my room when I got home and collapsed in exhaustion. By the time I woke up from my nap, finally ready to talk, Ollie was gone and Bridge was disturbingly silent, stilling all the words on my lips. Unsurprisingly, I've been on edge ever since.

"You'll never guess who I saw at the gallery today," Bridge calls from the living room, excited.

"Uh, who?" I ask, hesitant as I close the door behind me and shrug out of my coat. Knowing Bridge, I fully expected her patience with me to run out about, I don't know, twelve hours ago. I've been freaking out all afternoon, biting my pencils, running over various scenarios in the back of my mind, twitching my legs so incessantly that one of the editors called me out in the middle of a meeting. Because I had no doubt that the second I walked through the door tonight, I'd be cornered into talking about my coffee thing with John. In no way, shape, or form did I expect to hear enthusiasm in her voice.

This has to be a trick, right?

But when I see her sitting on the couch, a huge grin is plastered across her lips and even her curly red hair is bouncing cheerfully.

"Come on, guess," she says.

I scour my mind for ideas but have nothing. "Uh, the ghost of Claude Monet?"

Bridge rolls her eyes. "Take a real guess."

I sigh and collapse on the cushions next to her. "I'm tapped out."

"Long day?" she questions, eyes narrowing for just a second.

I shrug. "Aren't they all?" And then I sigh. "It's just the column. I have no idea what to write next week, and the ideas are getting harder and harder to pull out of thin air." Especially because the relationship that would currently inspire any ideas is completely hush-hush and absolutely no one can know about it. And when you think about it, how cruel is that? A secret affair would have Victoria salivating, would have Blythe sneering, would have the readers fawning.

"Well, maybe this will help," Bridge murmurs mysteriously.

I roll my head toward her, not bothering to lift it from the couch cushion. "How? Did you meet the love of my life at your gallery today?"

"Not exactly," she says, drawing out the last word dramatically. "But I did see Patrick."

If I had a drink, now would be the time I'd be spitting it out. Instead, I spring up from the back of the couch, nearly throwing my back out in the process. "What?"

"I know!" she jumps in. "I was shocked too."

"What was he doing there? How is he? What did you talk about?"

"Well, he was buying his parents a present for their anniversary, he said it's been-"

"Thirty years," I jump in. "I remember him telling me."

"Right, well, he was walking home from lunch with a client when he passed by the gallery and remembered I worked there, so he stopped in to say hi and asked if I could help him pick out a gift."

"Did you?"

She shrugs. "I'm not going to pass up a commission." And then her emerald eyes find mine, and she grins. "Besides, you might have broken up with him, but there are worse ways to spend an afternoon. You can't deny the boy is fine."

Suddenly, the last moment I saw him flashes through my mind, the moment we said goodbye. He was leaning against his bedroom wall, bare chested with gym shorts riding low on his hips, abs outlined by the moonlight. Yeah, even then his attractiveness was undeniable.

So, I relent, nodding toward Bridge. "How'd he look?"

"Perfectly dreamy," she replies.

I lift my brows.

She huffs dramatically. "I mean, he looked okay. Not in a deep depression or anything but not quite his fully charming self. He asked about you."

My heart stops. Not because I miss him. I'm not really sure why. Maybe just because I'm nervous-because I really hope he doesn't hate me. "What did he say?"

She shrugs. "Not much really, asked how you were doing. I said fine. He felt bad for not helping you with a cab that night. I told him that amazingly, you somehow managed to navigate the city on your own and made it home just fine. And then we sort of moved on."

"Moved on?" I ask.

A guilty expression passes over her face. "Well, I was trying to sell him art not interrogate him about your breakup."

Good point.

But still.

"How long was he at the gallery?"

She looks at the floor, pursing her lips.

"Bridge..."

She pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, biting it-the only nervous habit she has.

"Bridge."

She mumbles something.

"What?"

Finally, she looks up, peering at me through the curtain of red hair that's fallen in front of her face. "Two hours."

"Two hours!" I shout. "Two hours and that's all you got out of him? You've gotten more out of guys I drunkenly hooked up with at frat parties."

"I know, I know," she jumps in remorsefully. "But I really was trying to help him with a present for his parents, and once we moved on to other topics, the conversation just flowed, and the time flew by, and before I remembered to ask for more he was gone! I did the best I could."

I open my mouth, but Bridge keeps talking, barreling through any protests I could possibly make.

"Besides," she throws the word out snappily. And suddenly, I want to escape because her eyes just flashed, and her nostrils are starting to flare. And while I love my wonderfully amazing best friend, I recognize a complete emotional shift when I see one. I've been witness to Bridge's artistic passions too often, and when she feels cornered, lashing out is her only option.

But it's too late.

There's no going back.

She's already whipped her voluminous hair over her head and pulled her knees into her chest, preparing for an attack. "What were you hoping to hear? That he was depressed and sad and angry, when clearly you're not? He was a lot more hurt than you've appeared to be. And I've tried not to ask about it, I've tried not to pressure you, but something is going on that you're not telling me, and I think as your best friend I deserve to know what it is."

Holy hell.

Where did that come from?

"Um, Bridge," I mutter, feeling like that cartoon character who runs off a cliff too fast and doesn't realize there's no more land until he's already falling. What just happened? How did this get flipped around on me? "I don't know what you're talking about."

She snorts. "Give me a break. You really think I haven't noticed?"

"Noticed what?" I ask, trying my best not to cringe when the words come out about an octave higher than my normal speaking voice. But it's too late, because trying to clear my throat now would just be even more obvious.

Bridge's eyes go wider than I've ever seen them, which, actually, is quite impressive. "I don't know, noticed the giddy smiles you keep trying to hide, noticed the mysterious text messages you get all the time, noticed that you haven't had a single moment of post-break-up depression since New Year's."

I exhale loudly with denial.

But that's it.

That's all I've got.

Dramatic breathing.