An Irish wake. That’s exactly what my young life has devolved into.

“We’re here,” Sophie announces with just the right somber inflection as the three of us look up at Alpha Nu, our final destination after a multi-block pilgrimage in spiked stilettos, despite the snow piled against the sidewalks. Even though it hasn’t snowed in days, it’s still a frozen tundra out here—but a party is to be had and we’ll be damned if we were going to don our Sorels for this one. But my God, my frozen toes wish I had on my rattiest, comfiest pair. Moon Ridge, Colorado is known to be a frozen tundra from about Thanksgiving all the way to Easter. And seeing that we’re right at the top of January, we’ll be living in an icebox for a few good months still.

Ember clears her throat. “The first thing we need to do is get toasted.” She looks to me a moment, her caramel curls bouncing as she nods into this. “If you’re toasted, Vi, tomorrow won’t be nearly as bad.”

“How do you figure?” I look to Ember. September Sparks is a feisty, dirty blonde who happens to live at Canterbury Hall along with Sophie and me. Sophie and I are roommates, and since Em can’t stand the sight of hers—Taylor Greyson, who also happens to be the resident ho-bag of Leland University, we’ve adopted Ember as our own.

She blinks those impossibly cornflower blue eyes at me, rimmed with neon green. I’ve never seen eyes like Ember’s before. Lane blinks into my mind with those ghostly pale green eyes, and I quickly blink him right back out.

“That’s right”—she chirps with unmitigated glee like only Em can—“you’ll have a massive hangover, and the only thing you’ll be able to focus on is the knife-like pain jabbing into your skull. Trust me, head beats heart anytime.”

I wish I could correct her. Tell her that by no means am I nursing a broken heart, but I think at this point we would all know that’s a lie. I’m nursing a busted ego, too, but no one seems to care about that either. And in the mother of all ironies, I would seemingly be at the top of that not-caring list. It was me, after all, who made the inane decision to sign the three of us up for Dexter Houston’s foray into dating madness and soft porn. And, believe me, I’m not offended by the latter. In fact, you might say The Social Experiment had me at soft porn. I was looking to erase that broken heart I was gifted exactly one year ago and hoped to find true love at last. What a joke. And once I’m through with The Social Experiment, I’m going to be one, too.

The Social Experiment and their ridiculous motto filter through my mind: Two people, six weeks. The odds are in their favor! It sounds like the beginning of some young adult dystopian novel if you ask me. Once it was announced that I would be a part of the second chance romance grouping—as in paired with my ex, I pretty much knew the odds were certainly not in my favor.

I link arms with Sophie and Em and gird myself for what I’m hoping will be a night to remember as we traipse into Alpha Nu like women on a sexual mission. It’s the first official party since winter break came crashing to an end, and judging by the mass of humanity in every nook and cranny that this house of depravity has to offer, I’d say all of Leland University showed up to celebrate. No sooner do we thread our way through the bustling foyer than the temperature spikes fifteen degrees and it feels more like a sauna than a frat house. The humidity coupled with the clashing scents of perfume and cologne, of beer, and the slight hint of weed in the air, has me feeling a slight buzz already. I’m pretty certain following Ember’s not-so sage advice will only magnify the shitstorm I’m about to walk into tomorrow night at exactly seven o’clock. It feels like a death sentence. A long arduous walk to the electric chair. And it will be Lane himself who will flip the switch.

A brunette with wild curls and a red Solo cup in each hand bops over, and just as I think she’s about to walk right through us, Sophie pegs her with a kiss on the cheek. Then it hits me. This is Mindy, Rowen Garret’s little sister. Rowen happens to be Sophie’s official plus one. Sophie and Rowen were in The Social Experiment’s group A last semester. Poor little Soph had to make out with a stranger in the dark—and who did the big bad stranger turn out to be? Rowen Garret, the god of the football field, her childhood crush whom she’s known for years. They pretty much hit it off right away, and now they’re dating and mating. I myself am in group B, which kicks off tomorrow night with a live session in Finley Hall, the school’s largest auditorium. Dexter assured me we’d need the largest space possible to allow the student body to witness my greatest fear, my greatest regret, and perhaps the thing I dread more than death itself—sitting next to my ex for an undisclosed amount of time. In fact, if the Grim Reaper had to select a body to snatch from tonight’s Solo soiree, I’d gladly volunteer for the effort.

Unlike Sophie, making out with the star quarterback who was generously gifted the nickname the Colossus by the female population—I’ll be seated next to my ex, Lane Cooper, dissecting what went wrong in our stormy one and a half year relationship. I will be the first to inform you I am getting fucked sideways in the deal, and as much as I protested, as soon as I heard Lane agreed to the mockery, it basically forced my hand to do the same. There is no way in hell I’m going to let him think I’m so fragile, so broken up over him—that I actually might still give a shit. Nope. I let the people at The Social Experiment, the TSE, know I’d be there with bells on—and perhaps a millstone tied around my neck so I can find the deepest lake afterwards and toss myself in it. I’d rather have thirty-two root canals in a row than walk on that stage tomorrow night, but I made my thorny bed and now I get to sleep in it—alone and with my newfound battery operated boyfriend Em gifted me for Christmas.

“What’s up, chica?” Mindy bumps her hip into Sophie’s and inevitably sloshes beer from her Solo to my pointy heels, forcing me to jump back a foot.

Sophie offers me a forlorn look that sums up my entire stay here at Leland thus far this year. I spent last year at Sugar Valley Community College, and no thanks to Lane and our epic breakup, I ended up screwing up my spring classes so bad I dropped them. Thankfully, I had already apped for Leland—ironically to be near the infamous ex in question, Lame—and thankfully, they had accepted me, so here I am, a freshman again. There was no way I was going to blow off an esteemed private university just because of some guy I dated. A sharp pain sears through me as I reference him that way. My God, if he makes me feel this way when I’m not even in the same room with him, how am I ever going to keep from having an aneurysm tomorrow night? Something tells me I should save the hard liquor for show time.

Sophie quickly rambles out my sticky dilemma to her old BFF, and I try not to listen too closely. It sounds like a country song gone awry. As much as I wish it didn’t, it actually did involve a dog and a truck. Holy hell, I’m a bad joke and a bad cliché. The irony never ends.

Ember grunts and shudders as she spots someone across the way. “I don’t mean to change the subject, but that right there in the bright yellow sweater? That’s my roommate, Taylor Greyson.”

The three of us turn to find the short strawberry blonde wearing her signature stilted eight-inch heels—swear to God, she must have them custom-made. Not even strippers bother to go that high. I’ve seen Taylor around the dorm a time or two, and I happen to know she has an affinity for tight sweaters and jeans, along with stealing everybody else’s boyfriend. She’s a notorious ho who neither understands nor abides by girl code. At the moment, Taylor is swaying heavily to the rhythm pumping aggressively from the speakers. And in the short span of time we’ve been observing her, she’s seamlessly grinded over some dude’s Levi’s. The crowd thickens between us, obstructing our view from the poor sap. But you can see his hands catching her by the thighs every few seconds. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if a hookup were in the making. Hey, maybe we should take bets? I’m pretty sure I can score some easy dollars off this bump and grind, and God knows a fist full of cold hard cash would have the power to pull me from my ex-based funk.

Sophie smirks. “Looks like we’re getting a live action shot, girls.”

“Watch and learn.” Em steals a Solo from Mindy and raises it in Taylor’s ho-bag honor.

For a moment, the mass of bodies part, Taylor sashays to her left just as the dude in question sways the opposite direction, and a breath hitches in my throat.

There he is, Lane Cooper, looking just as tall, dark, and heart-stopping as ever. My body spikes with heat, my stomach dives through the floor, and I can feel my hands clamming up as if it were our first date all over again. I had crushed hard on Lane Cooper from afar for quite some time before we ever went out.

His eyes hook to mine. Those too pale to be real lenses he sees the world through round out in what looks like horror as we hang onto one another’s gaze. We had grabbed ahold of an electrical current of our own making, and this frat house had suddenly morphed into a puddle of water.

“Vi.” Sophie gives a hard tug to my arm, breaking our gaze. A thicket of coeds closes the visual gap between Lane and me, and I can finally breathe again.

Mindy waves a hand in front of me. “What the hell just happened?”

Sophie grimaces my way. “That was the ex.”

“Well, slap me stupid.” Mindy lets out a whoop. “I’m sorry, girl, but Boomer and I are going to be in the audience tomorrow night. It’s all anyone’s talked about all through winter break. I don’t know how you’re going to do it, but just know I’m rooting for you. I’m on your side.” She lifts a cup my way before looking to Soph. “Tell Rowen that Boomer and I are sitting with you. Save us some seats!” She takes off in search of her hulk of a boyfriend no doubt. Boomer Alderson is Rowen’s roommate. It’s a wonder Rowen let that mass of muscles date his baby sister, but it finally happened and I’m happy for them. I’m happy for anyone that finds love and keeps it. I give a sorrowful glance in Lane’s direction. I once believed that would be us.

Ember spots a couple of friends and takes off while tossing her arms in the air to the music, and I make a face. I’d give anything to be that carefree tonight. Any night.

“Go ahead and find Rowen,” I say as I give Soph a nudge to the arm. “I’m nothing but a downer tonight. I’ll probably head back early.”

“No way. I’m not leaving you. I already explained the situation to Rowen, and he completely understands. You need a friend tonight, and there’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight.”

“Please.” I roll my eyes as a sea of sorority girls parts, and Rowen himself walks down the center like an Adonis. He flashes that million-dollar smile at the two of us and half the room sighs. If you listen close enough, you can hear the sound of every ovary popping just this side of the Rocky Mountains.

Sophie doesn’t bother with hello. She simply wraps her arms around his neck and jumps up for a lingering kiss. It’s partially her way of pissing a circle around him in the event anyone in the room has forgotten their story, and I highly doubt they have. Half the country remembers their twisted tale. Heck, I binge-watched the whole thing in reruns right after Christmas myself. Rowen and Sophie have a love story for the ages. And that’s exactly why she shouldn’t have to babysit a sorry soul like me.

I disappear into the crowd undetected and migrate my way to the refreshment table laden with kegs and a Solo pyramid that’s been partially destroyed. A rap song is up next, and the volume increases to ear-bleeding levels. I can feel that thumping backbeat right down to the soles of my feet, and I’m pretty sure my future children tucked snug in my ovaries feel it as well.

I fight the swarm of coeds in hopes to fill a Solo with urine-colored beer only to bump into a hard body—decidedly male judging by the girth of his chest, along with the fact my free hand just swiped against his amazingly well-endowed crotch without meaning to. Dear God, I’m pretty sure I just landed us on third base.

“So sorry!” I cry above the music and the noise of the crowd only to gasp once my gaze meets up with those haunted pale green eyes. Swear to God, Lane Cooper’s eyes have always had a slight possessed look to them and, to be honest, it was those lucent eyes that I noticed first about him—the rock-solid girth of his chest being the second, and the aforementioned bulge in his jeans being the most crucial third.

Here he is, live and in person, just a breath away with his black coffee-colored hair, that straight nose, those high-cut cheeks. His comma-like dimples aren’t coming out to say hello, and why would they? He only employs their weaponry when he dares to smile, and Lane Cooper is clearly not in a smiling mood.

“Shit,” I mutter before pivoting on my heels. It all happens in slow motion, the way so many nightmares do, as I ditch into the crowd, heart racing, adrenaline coursing through me as if I were trying to escape a deranged killer with a hatchet. I can feel the bull’s-eye over my back, searing hot as if anticipating the plunge of a blade. In this case, the blade is Lane Cooper’s eyes.

“I should get out of here,” I pant under my breath, talking to myself like a freaking loon. “No, wait,” I mutter as I glance left then right, both directions thick with bodies. “If I run, he’ll know it was because of him.” I press my lips together, forbidding one more stitch of internal dialogue to escape them. It’s bad enough I’m about to have my dirty laundry aired for all to see tomorrow night—and I’m not talking day old jeans—I’m talking crusty, three day worn and pissed on, dirty, heck, there might even be a skid mark in the mix undergarments. But the last thing I need is someone spotting me having a raging conversation with myself in the middle of a kegger.

A smiling face comes my way—tall, dark, and handsome by most standards. I recognize that cheesy grin from all the football games Sophie dragged me off to. It’s Tim Locke, a senior. He has a twin, Dan, and everyone knows them as the Locke brothers. They’re both infamous players, and judging by the fact his lids grow heavy with every step in my direction, I can tell he’s gunning for a hookup. I give a slight glance over my shoulder and find Lane staring us down like a predator in waiting.

“What’s up, beautiful?” Tim slurs his words just enough to let me know he’s toasted. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“You’re right. We haven’t met.” This is usually the part where I would insert a zinger like and we’re not going to, asshole, so keep walking, douchebag. There’s no way in hell your balls are going to score a touchdown between my goalposts. But I don’t employ my vast arsenal of wit and razor-sharp charm. Instead, I loop my arm through his, still feeling Lane’s gaze burrowing a hole through the back of my head, and I lead Tim right through the frat house and out into the frozen night air. And just as I’m about to ask Mr. Blood Alcohol Content .19 if he’s got a bike I can borrow to pedal myself the hell out of here, I switch suggestive gears. If Lane saw me riding out of here like a bat on wheels, I’m sure his overblown ego would feel a smidge of satisfaction. Nope. I need to maintain the illusion of having a good time, and Tim here just volunteered as tribute.

“How about you walk me to my dorm, big boy?” I pet his forearm as if it were a puppy. “I can use a strong body to lean against. These skyscrapers strapped to my feet are killing me.” I’m so wearing the fucking Sorels next time. There’s not a boy at Leland worth a spiked heel in my opinion. Hell, I might start meandering around campus in my robe with my retainer and reading glasses. I don’t know who the heck I’m trying to impress around here anyway. It’s clear Cupid’s stupid arrow won’t be flying in my direction anytime soon.

“Oh, baby,” he moans, and I shudder at the sound of his gurgling voice, ripe with lewd intention. “Honey, I’ll take you to the Tower if that’s what you want.”

I shoot him a look that says fat chance, Raunchy Romeo. Everyone knows the Tower is the most notorious hookup hot spot on campus. It’s social media famous for its #towerFTW hashtag. Everyone who is anyone has made it a point to knock boots at Leland University’s premier coital locale.

I can’t help but scowl at him a little. “How about we save the Tower for our next date? I think we should start with the constitutional first and see where things go from there,” I say, racing him to the sidewalk and down the street. He’s so tall and sturdy I’m practically ice skating down the road by his side. Honest to God, if he wasn’t here, I’d have to army crawl back to my dorm just to avoid snapping my ankles. And believe you me, if that’s what it took to escape Lane Cooper for the evening, it would be well worth the road rash and potential staph infection that would mercifully claim my life. I frown at the thought of my ex inviting the Grim Reaper into my brain twice in one evening. I forbid myself from having another single morbid thought unless the Grim Reaper’s tools of affection are pointed toward my ex.

Tim does his best to hang onto me and mumbles incoherently for the majority of our unexpected sojourn. We enter campus and get as far as Coffeeology before I decide this is as good a place as any for thanking him for the proverbial ride.

“Thanks for helping me out.” I pull my arm free and take a few steps away to create that three-foot boundary I love to keep in play at all times. Had I kept it in play with Lane last year I wouldn’t be here shivering, short on both breath and sanity. When all is said and done, I’ve become the poster child for celibacy and why it should be considered a viable option.

Tim does his best impression of a zombie, staggering forward, eyes closed, mouth agape. “Come here, baby.” He swats at the air, and I’m quick to duck from his grasp. “I’m a kiss it and make it better.” His arms leash around me with an anaconda tight grip, and I can’t breathe or move, or feel my limbs anymore for that matter.

“No, really, it’s okay!” I try my best to wiggle out of his death grip, but it’s becoming quickly apparent I’m the one who’s holding him up at this point. Dear God, I’ve run from a wolf only to meet up with a drunken frat bear. “Please, let go. I think you should take a seat.” Just as I’m about to land him on a snow-covered bench, a pair of arms snatches him off me from behind.

Lane Cooper grunts as he hoists Tim into a field to our left like a Frisbee. “She said let go, dude!” he riots into the night, and everything in me freezes. My heart thumps once, unsure if it should try to shatter its way out of my chest or stop beating altogether in honor of the white knight act he’s pulling.

But my body wisely chooses red-hot rage as a response.

“Oh my God! Are you stalking me?” My voice shrills into the night, straight up to that silver platter moon sitting above us, washing Lane with the powder blue glow of its affection. Lane has always been the center of affection, especially with those oozing with estrogen.

Lane doesn’t so much as twitch a smile. Not one dimple comes out to greet me, and how dare they think they can turn their backs on me when I’ve bathed them with my kisses.

“You just freaked the hell out of me!” I shout as I widen the distance between us. But Lane just stands there, head tilted forward, his entire body stiff as a statue. “That Michael Myers’ impersonation you’re doing isn’t exactly helping. And don’t you dare say a word to me,” I warn with a shaky voice filled with far too much emotion to ever be safe. “Back away slowly. You’ll get what’s coming to you tomorrow night. You’ll pay for what you’ve done to me, Lane.”

I spin and run all the way to Canterbury, slipping and sliding and not caring one bit. But I can still feel him there watching me, those eyes of his lighting up my backside, bursting my skin into flames like a dry hillside in July. Lane Cooper has always had the ability to set me on fire.

---

Wednesday, I can’t even focus on my classes. In fact, I leave the last class of the day early, just walk out in the middle of it and head straight to my dorm. Em and Sophie do their best to try to shove food down my throat, but I’m not having it. The last thing I want to happen is for my digestive system to regurgitate its offerings in front of the faculty, the student body, and the potential millions of viewers who will be eagerly watching on the edge of their seats. The first broadcast will be live. LIVE! A horrible situation in and of itself.

Six o’clock comes fast like a member of the chess club visiting a hooker for the very first time. Dexter instructed those participating in tonight’s massacre to be at Finley Hall no later than six. Girls were told to assemble at the east, so that’s where I meander. Ember wishes me luck as I stare at the peachy glow coming from Finley that will inevitably lead to my doom. I give Em a brief hug and watch sullen as she sashays her cute self to the front with the rest of tonight’s audience.

“Don’t worry”—Sophie maneuvers me toward the entry—“they’ll have to demand I leave.”

We follow the sign that reads Welcome Group B! and find a room swarming with bodies.

“Seth!” Sophie jumps and waves at an older looking bald guy with a warm smile, dressed in a black sweatshirt that reads STAFF in bright orange letters. Come to think of it, half the people here have donned the self-ascribing accoutrement.

“Sophie Meyer.” He pulls her into a brief hug. “Glad to see you here tonight. You’re not a part of group B, are you?” he chides playfully. Great. Sophie and Seth are busy cooing away while my armpits are busy staining my tight little black dress with copious amounts of sweat. Crap. How in the hell did I get myself into this mess again? Oh, that’s right. My lust for scarves at the bookstore led me to a fifty percent off coupon if I signed on the dotted line. Note to self: find out what apartment Lane is holed up in and flush said scarf down his toilet. I wouldn’t dare injure the delicate sewer system of Canterbury Hall. You flush a tampon, and you’d better say a prayer.

“Isn’t that great news?” Sophie bleats while shaking me silly.

“What?” I come to, only to realize I’m still actually embedded firmly in my worst nightmare. I would trade this nails on a chalkboard experience for any other nightmare of mine, say the one where I’m walking around campus sans any pants? Or the one in which I can’t find any of my classes and thus don’t graduate on time? Hell, if my heart rate skyrockets any more than it already has, I won’t have to worry about graduating at all. I’ll be attending Casket University from here until eternity.

Sophie giggles like a schoolgirl as she looks to Seth, who has the power to squash this nonsense like a cockroach, and God, I wish he would. “She’s been zoning out all day. You could say she’s just a tad bit nervous.”

“You could say I’m just a tad bit homicidal.” And that’s only because I promised I’d stop with all the morbid thoughts of self-harm. And I’m improving leaps and bounds. Case in point, I did not fashion my scarf into a noose—I utilized it as a weapon of toilet-based destruction.

Seth nods knowingly as if he just read my every thought. “I’ve double-checked, and you’ve signed all the appropriate paperwork. Congratulations, Violet. I’ll be your sensory guide for the next six weeks.” His perma-smile melts right off his face. “I’ll be honest with you. Once I heard group B’s focus was bitter exes, I had my misgivings.”

“Oh cool!” Sophie trills as if Seth just pulled a bunny from his ear. “Each group gets a focus. What was mine?”

A dull laugh dies in my chest as I take a stab at it. “Fantasy football?” It’s true—

almost the entire team was featured. “And why aren’t I getting my own quarterback to make out with in the dark?” At this point, I’d take a male yell leader.

Seth’s shoulders sag as he looks to me, despondent. “You get a basketball star. You do realize your ex is the team captain.”

“And the very reason I haven’t been to a basketball game yet.” True as God. I haven’t even gone near the Cougar Dome.

“Good to note.” He jots something down on his phone, and I can’t help but roll my eyes. I know for a fact they pick our brains to dictate where our dates and outings should be directed. If it weren’t for Sophie telling them she had a fear of heights—although she strongly denies it—I’m betting she would never have had to rappel off the side of Windy Peak. “You might want to jot down that my biggest fear is being locked in a shopping mall and having to scrounge all of the luxury items I can within a twenty-four period, and for the record, I’m deathly afraid of Chinese food, too.” There. I’ve already outsmarted the system.

He looks to Sophie. “She’s funny.” That warm smile bounces back on his lips. “All right, Violet, we’ve got you and Lane lined up first. We’ve got two hours to kill and eight couples to kill it with, so about fifteen minutes each. We’ve got two spare in the wings in the event a few of you run short. There is a moderator. He will be offstage. You won’t see him, but you will hear his voice. He’s only there to move things along. I can’t stress enough that I need you to participate. Whatever he asks you, we want the long answer. Look directly to Lane and respond to him as if he asked the question. The less you say, the more aloof you’ll come across, and you don’t want anyone to think you’re aloof, do you?”

“Aloof.” Sophie slyly looks it up on her phone, and I’m glad because for one my brain feels rather aloof at the moment.

She wrinkles her nose my way. “Oh, hon, they’re going to think you’re a bitch.”

“Shit. I am aloof,” I’m quick to inform Seth. “I’m practically her best friend at this point, and her sarcasm and nervous energy have been absorbed into my cellular structure by way of osmosis. You can’t expect to put me on a stage with my ex and have me act rational, let alone cute and bubbly. In the event you haven’t noticed, I don’t really give a rip about Facebook likes. I’m not even on Facebook!” Only a partial lie. I have an account, and yet I make it a practice not to visit it.

Seth tips his face up a notch. “You’re on in twenty minutes. We need you in hair and makeup and miked up. Don’t worry”—he offers an irritatingly friendly grin—“something tells me you’re going to be the star of the night. Studies show that people in general are likely to sympathize with women when it comes to a heterosexual breakup. You and your ovaries have got this in the bag.” He gives a sly wink and takes off.

“Did he just say that?” I marvel with my jaw rooted to the floor.

“I believe he did.”

Sophie helps me navigate my way to hair and makeup just before a couple of beefy dudes from stage crew get ahold of me and shove a wire down my cleavage. Hey? Maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. I get to tell off Lane, and I get felt up by a couple of cute frat boys working as crew? I haven’t had this much action in months.

And before I know it, Sophie is replaced with Seth, and he’s marching me through the dark bowels behind Finley Hall until we come upon a pinhole of light. He marches me straight to the edge of the stage, and I glance down at my peep toe heels as my heart thunders inside me like a rushing stampede. My God, what have I done? Who the hell has taken over my body? The real me would never have let things get this far. The real me would have left Colorado by now.

The emcee strums along with his monologue, and I can’t keep up with the words. The world in general seems to be spinning a bit too fast.

“And you’re on. Take a seat at the table.” Seth gives me a shove onto the stage, and the wash of a powerfully bright light pours over me with its warmth igniting my body to bathe itself in sweat. I glance to the crowd, and a sea of darkness takes over, causing me to squint.

“Let’s give Violet Hathaway a warm welcome as she takes a seat,” the invisible emcee bleats it out, deep and knowing, as if it were the very voice of God. “Thank you for joining us this evening, Violet.” The room erupts into polite applause as I force my feet to wobble their way to the tiny table sitting at the front of the stage. There are seats situated on either side of it. Lane and I will face one another and not the crowd. I don’t know which I would prefer at this point—staring at the white haze of blurred faces or the crisp, sharp, unfairly handsome face of my ex. I take a seat on the cold metal chair and give a nervous glance to the audience, wincing as I struggle to see past the blinding lights pointed in my direction. That old seventies song, “I Got You Babe,” cues up over the speakers, and my mouth falls open as I’m caught momentarily off guard.

That’s right. They asked if we had a song.

My stomach churns with anger. I feel so dirty and used I could flip a table—this one would be nice. The song was a joke, sort of. We said we couldn’t be official without a song and, sure enough, this came on over the radio. It was sarcastic, but it was our song and I’ve cried a million tears while listening to it ever since. I sniff back unexpected tears and gird myself for the oncoming onslaught of emotions. I will thoroughly punish myself for this misadventure by running up every credit card my father gave me once we’re through. A little retail therapy is the only thing I can think of to ward off the real kind that I’ll need sooner than later administered by a team of psychiatric professionals.

“And let’s welcome Lane Cooper to the stage as well.” An equally dull round of applause goes off. Only this time it’s punctuated by the woo-hoo of an enthused group of girls. I can’t blame them. He is a looker.

Lane shocks me with his presence. He’s donned a suit, along with that somber, brooding look on his face he’s famous for as he strides this way. He takes a seat across from me, and his knee bumps against mine a moment, sending a powerful electrical jolt straight to my heart. His dark hair is neatly slicked back, those pale eyes are set on mine, while his mouth is set in a scowl. Lane looks positively, vexingly gorgeous, and that silly part of me that still reacts viscerally at the sight of him melts like candle wax. It’s only then I notice the box of tissues sitting on the edge of the table, insinuating there will be tears, or bloodshed—both if I have my way.

“Hello, Vi.” His warm voice transcends our spatial boundary and floats through this enormous hall like a ghost from yesteryear, and my heart tries its best to riot from my chest. I can’t help it. Lane has always made my heart go pitter-patter.

“Hello, Lane.” I come off as anything but warm as our eyes lock onto one another, unmovable as a boulder.

Seth was right. I’m going to make sure everyone in this audience knows just what a bitch I can really be.

Lane and I are about to dig up the grave of our past and shake out our skeletons for everyone to see.

Let the good times rattle and roll.