God, Abby, no.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare out the car window at the open sign casting erratic red light onto the sidewalk. No matter how open it is, I have zero interest in setting foot in the bar in front of us.

“Do you have anything to drink at your place?” I open my mouth to reply and Abigail cuts me off. “I mean, with alcohol?” I close my mouth and shake my head. “Well, then, here we are.”

“But really…Hooligans?” I stare skeptically at the bar, a tiny carved-out nook wedged between the dry cleaner and the laundromat. A sign posted by the front door claims tonight’s specials are tortilla soup and a “Splashin’ Passion” for five dollars, whatever that means. Even when I was in high school this place had a sketchy reputation—rumor had it that Bernadette Myers from my homeroom lost her virginity in the bathroom to a guy twice her age just to prove that she could. I don’t need to have actually been inside to know this is not where I want to be tonight. “We couldn’t have just gone to the liquor store?”

Abby unclicks her seatbelt and tilts her head against the headrest to look at me. “Come on, Nat. I got a sitter for Nico and everything. How often do we get to do this?”

The answer is never—I never get to go out with my best friend, given that we normally live an hour apart, and she, as a single mom, almost never gets to go out herself. Certainly I haven’t forgotten about her five-year-old, Nico—the plastic dinosaurs lodged in the footwell of Abby’s car are reminder enough—but until she slid into her pleading voice, I hadn’t recognized that maybe tonight’s rescue mission is a little escape for both of us.

“Fine,” I grumble. “But I have a negative bank account. Can my boobs buy the drinks for us?”

Her face splits into a smile. “That’s the spirit. And I don’t care how you pay for them.”

The truth is, Abigail’s rack is way nicer than mine. She’s all pinup-girl curves and tan skin. Catalog-model hair, tumbling and dark. Her boobs are the reason AJ Peterson couldn’t keep his hands off of her and she wound up pregnant the summer after senior year of high school. As much as I love being Nico’s godmother, being his actual mother hasn’t been an easy path for Abby. I’ll keep my B cups, thank you very much.

A low pulse of music leaks out under Hooligans’ heavy oak door and I hesitate, my palms sweating, pretty sure I’m having an out-of-body experience. I haven’t been back to my hometown in over four years, and grown-up Natalie is suddenly teenage Natalie, shifting awkwardly on the sidewalk. I can’t quite feel my feet.

“I shouldn’t be here at all,” I tell Abigail, my heart racing. “What are people going to say?”

“First of all, fuck ’em.” She speaks with the practiced air of someone who’s spent years developing a thick skin. She’s had to be tough—in this town, single teen moms don’t exactly get citizenship awards from the mayor—and I wish I felt a fraction of her confidence. “Second of all, you look gorgeous, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

I doubt it. I’d kept my face makeup free in protest but now that I hear the low throb of music from inside, I’m second-guessing my choice. As much as I don’t want to care about what people think of me, I can’t help the prickle of awareness that races down my spine. I don’t know what’s worse—showing up as I am, defeated, or showing up and masking my misery with mascara and blush. Either way, it’s too late to change anything. Abby swings open the heavy door, and in we go.

Hooligans smells like damp carpet and strong liquor, moldy and astringent all at once. To its credit, the bar is bigger on the inside than I’d guessed from the outside. A few pool tables crowd the front of the room and a long counter stretches across the back. There’s a sombrero tacked above the bar, along with the requisite neon beer signs that I suspect aren’t just vintage-looking as much as they are actually vintage. A bowl of peanuts sits out like an afterthought.

And there at the bar is a familiar face. It’s a strong, handsome face with a slightly crooked nose and sharp green eyes. A head of perfectly-mused, just-fucked looking hair. A cocky-ass smile.

Jackson Wirth. Shit.

“This is a bad idea.” I wheel around, my heart racing. I have no chill and I don’t even care.

Abby looks over my shoulder. “What’s the problem?” When she sees Jackson, her face shifts slightly. “Oh. You’re not freaking out over him, are you?”

“No,” I lie. “It’s because of the crowd.”

It’s because he’s someone I silently used to love.

“Consider everyone source material for characters in your next book,” Abby suggests, adjusting her bra so her boobs squish up. “And he can be the big bad wolf who devours the heroine’s heart.”

Abigail knows enough of what happened with me and Jackson to know why I’m squirming, but I haven’t filled her in on all of the details of that night. I don’t bother to correct her now.

“Let’s stay for at least one drink,” she says. “I promise I won’t let him bite.”

The problem is, maybe I want him to.

“Fine,” I relent. “But I’m sending you up to buy the drinks.”

Abigail rolls her eyes and pulls me to a tiny table in the corner of the room. I open my wallet to hand over some money but instead of finding the ten dollar bill I remember having, I find it depressingly empty.

“Shit.”

I swallow hard, only now remembering I spent my last bit of cash on an iced coffee on my drive back from Boston. The drink seemed so necessary at the time—the tiniest balm for the biggest hurt—all cream and sugar and ice. Only now it seems stupid to have spent the money on an overpriced drink. How could I have known when I’d need it next?

“Um, about my boobs buying it for you…?” I could pay with a credit card, only I’d have to sign the receipt and then I might as well walk up to Jackson myself.

Abby waves in the air. “I’ve got it, babe.” Her generosity makes me squirm. It’s not like Abby has the money to spare, either. She’s got a kid to feed, for chrissakes.

I watch her head to the bar, the neon signs casting a red glow on her skin. Jackson’s head snaps up when she approaches and he scans the room, ignoring the cluster of girls hanging on the bar waiting for him. He’s looking for something. Or someone. When his eyes finally find mine, everything in the room slides to a stop like we’re in a goddamn movie. The heat of Jackson’s gaze makes my cheeks go too warm, makes me remember every long night we spent together. Even from here I know he has flecks of gold in his eyes and long, dark lashes.

Jackson looks even better than he did when I left town all those years ago, and I can feel my heartbeat speed up, my stomach bottom out. What a stupid, traitorous body.

I drop my eyes, breaking the staring contest.

Oh god, this isn’t going to work. I can’t be here in this room with him. My body can’t keep wanting him the way it did for all those years.

I bolt for the bathroom before Abigail gets back from the bar. What I need is a few big lungfuls of fresh air. What I need is an open road between here and Boston. What I get is a smelly restroom with a cigarette butt floating in the toilet. As they say, beggars can’t be choosers.

I’m not proud of it, but I hide, wondering idly if this very stall is the one where Bernadette allegedly traded in her V-card. I huddle in the cramped, dark room just long enough to pee and splash water on my face and let my hair out of its topknot. Fixing my hair is stupid for a number of reasons, not the least of which is I’m not here to impress anyone, not in that way. I can’t get my heart broken twice in a month. And heartbreak’s all Jackson Wirth is good for.

He is, after all, the guy who slept with three girls who lived on the same floor in his dorm in one week. I know because he told me as he was “walking me home” one night. It’s what we did, those first weeks of college. If I stayed out late at a party, he’d tell me to call him on the way to my dorm, to make sure I got back safe.

When he told me about his dorm-room antics, I could picture the matter-of-fact shrug rolling off his shoulders, that casual, shit-eating grin of his.

Those poor girls, I thought. The side-eye going on in the ladies’ room must have been epic. Because I knew, even then, what it was like to have the full force of his charm turned on you, then suddenly off. I had seen it happen to all the girls in our high school he had dated and left.

Not me, I’d sworn to myself, and nosed back quietly into my books. Until that one stupid night I hadn’t.

I should have known better then. And I know better now. But I can’t help the way my heart rate refuses to return to normal. I frown at myself in the mirror and dry my hands.

Here goes nothing.

I swing open the bathroom door and almost hit Jackson, who’s standing just on the other side of the hall. Part of me is secretly thrilled he came to find me, but I’m going to bury that part so deep you’d need an excavator to retrieve it.

“Shit. Sorry,” I say. Jackson has a silver scar under his left eyebrow, and when I see it now, I remember the night he got it. Unfortunately, all it does is add to his appeal. His broad shoulders and trim waist don’t hurt either, the way his body screams that it can serve up way more pleasure than just a cocktail.

“You’re back.” Jackson steps close until he’s up in my personal space, as if he thinks there shouldn’t be any distance between us. God, did he always smell this good?

“Surprise.” I wrap my arms around myself and think of Matthew’s tongue down his secretary’s throat. Surprise. But I’m not bitter or anything.

“It’s good to see you, Natalie.” Jackson’s voice is a question, his mouth a fraction shy of a smile. “It’s been too long.”

“Yeah, well, see you around,” I say, then push past him.

“Why are you running away from me?” Jackson demands when I’m halfway down the hall.

“I’m not,” I tell him without looking back.

But one hundred percent, I am.