I slip out of the bathroom while Dawson is still toweling off, threading my way through the house. Off the kitchen I find it—the laundry room—and my clothes folded in a tidy stack on top of the dryer.

I dress slowly, and with each item of clothing I pull on, I feel farther and farther away from last night with Dawson.

I mean—I can’t stay here indefinitely, as much as I want to. And if he’s just interested in sex—

That’s not what he said, I remind myself as sternly as I can. It was a flirty, sexy moment in the shower, for God’s sake, not a serious discussion about where we’re going to go from here.

If we’re going to go anywhere at all.

“You found your stuff.”

His voice startles me, and I turn to see him leaning against the doorway of the laundry room, dressed in a t-shirt and a navy hoodie that hugs every line of him.

I try to smile at him, but my spine trembles. I feel like I’m standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, every moment so precarious, so charged.

“What’s wrong?”

His face is serious, the glow from the shower gone completely.

“Nothing.”

Dawson shakes his head. “I know you better than that.”

“Do you? It’s been ten years.” There’s an edge to my voice that I didn’t intend, and Dawson’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah, I do, India. Just remember—” He cuts himself off with another shake of his head. “Never mind.”

“No. Tell me.”

He turns his back to me, moving back into the kitchen, and I follow on his heels.

“Remember what?”

Dawson whirls around, and his eyes are glittering with pain. “Just remember that the reason we haven’t spoken in ten years is because of what you did.”

It’s a knife straight into my heart.

“Dawson, I didn’t mean—”

He raises both hands in front of him. “Don’t start with that. You meant to do what you did. We both know that.”

“I didn’t mean for it to be devastating, okay? I thought—I thought we would both get over it.”

“You did get over it.”

“Didn’t you?”

“No!” His voice is thundering, and the moment the word is out of his mouth, he claps his hand over his lips, looking away. When he looks back at me, his eyes are narrowed. “No, India,” he says, his tone chillingly level. “I didn’t get over it. I’ve thought of you every day for the past ten years, wondering how you could set aside what we had like that. How you could fucking…” It’s like he can’t find a strong enough word. “How you could humiliate me like that. On your fucking front porch.”

No. He can’t possibly believe—

“That wasn’t me.”

“Oh? It wasn’t you who agreed to go to whatever that goddamn dance was with him?”

“My dad was friends with his dad at the country club. They arranged it somehow. I didn’t know he was going to come until—”

“Until he showed up?”

“Until he showed up.”

His jaw works, considering it. “You didn’t seem to give a shit for a decade. Not until I was the one who showed up to get you out of the ditch.”

“That’s not true.” My voice quivers, and I hate it. “I told you. I thought about you every day.”

“You never said anything. You never called. You never stopped in.”

“Stopped in where?”

“At the bar I’ve owned for the last five years. Jesus, India. Did you forget me that completely?”

“I already told you, I thought about you every damn day. I didn’t come back often, okay? I was—I was ashamed.”

The heat flies to my cheeks again, and damn it, there are tears pricking the corners of my eyes.

“I was embarrassed because of what happened. You avoided me for the rest of senior year, or did you conveniently forget that? It wasn’t just me.”

Dawson takes in a huge breath and lets it out, running a hand through his hair. “What the hell is the point of all this?”

“I guess there isn’t one,” I spit back at him. “I guess all of this is just pointless.”

He clenches his jaw and crosses his arms over his chest. “If that’s the way you feel about it.”

I feel like I’m being stabbed in the chest. I feel hollow, like I’ve lost a chance I never knew I’d have again. I feel like raging at him, screaming, crying. I feel like leaving. Right now.

“How about—” The tremble in my voice disgusts me. I wanted to be stronger than this. “Could I just have a ride home? I think the storm is over, but my car—”

“Fine. Great. Get your stuff.”

I move woodenly toward the kitchen counter, then go past it and to the guest room where my coat and hat lie pathetically on the floor, and gather them up in my arms. My phone is heavy in one of the jacket pockets. It’s all I brought with me. I don’t care about the groceries anymore.

When I get back out to the kitchen, Dawson is standing by the door, his jacket on, keys in hand, eyes empty.

“Let’s go.”