My keys clink against the plastic table.

It’s too quiet today.

Way too fucking quiet.

I tug at my t-shirt. Close my eyes. Let my thoughts drift back to the way this place used to be. The mass-produced paintings on the walls, the carefully arranged photos on the fridge, the decorative pillows on the leather couch.

I should have known shit was gonna end like this the second she brought home one of those pillows.

That was the type of thing we hated. The type of thing we mocked together.

No. I’m not doing this. Not tonight.

Not ever.

She’s gone. And I’m going to get over it.

One day.

I toss my bag on the couch—right where that ugly Home, Sweet Home pillow used to rest—then I shuffle through the mail.

Bill. Credit card offer. Rolling Stone.

Thick, square envelope. Handwritten address. Familiar stamped return address.

I peel the envelope open.

It’s there, in curvy silver letters.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Penelope Winters and Francis Hobbs.

My stomach drops.

My throat tightens.

The air gets heavy. Hot. Suffocating.

This isn’t fucking happening.

There’s no way my ex-girlfriend is getting married in six short weeks.

There’s no way she’s walking down the aisle with the guy I caught her fucking in our bed.

There’s no way she’s inviting me to watch this train wreck.

* * *

For three days, I shove Penny’s wedding to the back of my mind.

I focus on my routine.

I perfect every link of ink. I run. I spar. I cook dinner, for myself or for Leighton. I drown myself in tattoo mock-ups, at my desk, alone, or on my best friend’s couch.

My illusion of normalcy shatters the second my phone sings with Maneater.

Penny’s ringtone.

She’s calling me to—

I don’t know. Or care. I don’t want to hear her excuses. Or her apology.

I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore.

It echoes through my brain. She was right there. In our bed. Only the sheets were pink.

My eyelids flutter closed. I can see her, hugging the Egyptian cotton to her chest. Pushing her dark hair behind her ear. Staring at the ground to hide the shame in her honey eyes.

Or was it the lack of shame?

She never apologized for hurting me. For fucking him behind my back. For lacking the guts to leave.

Only for falling out of love with me.

The air gets hot again. It’s ridiculous—I’m naked, freshly showered and sopping wet, and the air conditioning is set to high. The room is freezing. Freezing enough my dick is shrinking.

And my dick—

It’s a been a year since I’ve fucked anyone. I get hard at the drop of a hat now. Especially around Leighton.

Which is fucking ridiculous.

She’s my best friend.

And I’m not fucking that up.

One nine-year relationship in flames is plenty for one lifetime.

I wrap a towel around my waist. Cinch it tight. Stare at my cell as the call goes to voicemail.

My phone sings again.

She’s still infecting the air. Robbing my life of every ounce of pleasure.

My last drop of calm evaporates. I need another shower. I need a thousand showers. I need to scrub away every memory of her.

No, I need more than that. I need to step out of my skin and find some new body. One that won’t react to Penelope Winters.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. Whatever her bullshit reason for calling, I’m not letting her believe I’m a mess without her.

I answer the call. “Yeah?”

“Oh. Ryan. I thought I’d get voicemail.” Her voice is soft. Sweet.

The same voice she used to whisper I love you the first time.

Then to whisper I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore.

My stomach twists.

My chest gets heavy.

Her voice undoes me. Sends me right back to the moment where my heart shattered into a million tiny pieces too small for anyone to see.

A million tiny pieces that tear up my skin anytime I get close.

It bounces around my brain.

I’m sorry, but I don’t love you anymore.

I press my back against the wall, but it doesn’t do shit to steady my thoughts. “Is this important? I’ve got a lot to do.”

“It will only take a minute.”

It’s been nearly a year since I’ve heard her voice. I can still hear the Penny I fell in love with. But there’s something else too. Some person I don’t recognize.

“How’s the shop?” she asks.

“Good. We bought it from Manning.”

Her voice perks. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s amazing, Ryan. Perfect for you.”

“Thanks.” My voice wavers. I press my palm against the wall. Owning the shop is perfect for me. It’s what I’ve always wanted. Hell, it’s the only thing besides her I ever really wanted.

But why the fuck is she happy about that?

The last year, she kept dropping hints about how I needed to find a “real job.” Never mind that we used to stay up all night talking about how we’d never fall into that bullshit trap.

Yeah, we were kids. But it’s not like she was ever idealistic. She meant it.

“I’m guessing you got the invitation?” Something creeps into her voice. Regret. Remorse. Or maybe pity.

In her eyes, I’m still a loser tattoo artist. Not like her respectable finance bro fiancé. My hair is too long. My arms are too inked. My jeans are too ripped.

I don’t own a suit much less wear one to work every day.

“Yeah.” Memories flood my mind. The two of us sitting on the swings at the park by her place. Marveling at our sneakers and pinkie promising we’d never get jobs where we had to wear anything else.

Promising we’d never let each other give up on our dreams.

The rubber padding under my feet.

The bright moon against the dark sky.

The sprinklers hitting the grass.

And that watermelon ChapStick on her lips.

I can’t get anywhere near the fucking fruit without thinking of her.

“Ryan…” Her voice drops back to that soft, sweet tone. I love you. “I’m so sorry.” But I don’t love you anymore. “I told Mom a million times. I told her it was rude to invite you. But she doesn’t get that you aren’t over me.”

Words tumble from my lips before I can stop them. “I am.”

“Oh.” She barely manages to hide her surprise.

No, I’m not over Penny. Not even close. But fuck her for assuming that. It’s not like she’s around to watch me slice my fingers trying to pick up the pieces. “I’m seeing someone.”

This is bullshit. Even I can’t sell it.

I don’t see anyone. All my clients look the same—skin stretched over bone, grunts of pain, nervous smiles.

Women flirt with me constantly. It’s something about getting ink. Some rush of dopamine. Some desire to get that hot tattoo artist notch on their bedpost.

Women go apeshit for my wavy hair and my inked arms. But that does nothing to thrill me. It’s only a knife in my chest, seeing women gaga for the shit Penny hated.

My ex-girlfriend’s voice shifts to some tone I can’t place. “That’s great, Ryan. Really. What’s she like? Pretty?”

“Yeah.” Of course, that’s her first question.

It’s all appearances with her now.

Or maybe she was always like this. Maybe I was blinded by how much I loved her.

“What does she do?” Her voice pulls me back into the moment.

The air conditioner hums. The black curtains ruffle against the window. The black sheets soak up the light from the fluorescent bulb.

I swallow hard. Push away all the images forming in my mind. Of times when shit made sense. “Why’d you call, Penny?”

“I’m going by Penelope now.”

Of course she is. “Question stands.”

“I wanted to apologize. For Mom. The wedding planning is making us both crazy. It was insensitive.”

Yeah. It was. But fuck her for that condescending tone in her voice. Fuck her for thinking I can’t handle this. Even if she’s right. “It’s fine.”

“Really?”

“It’s been a year. It’s not like I’m waiting by the phone.”

“Oh. Do you… Do you want to come?”

I’d rather tattoo I’m still in love with Penelope Winters on my dick. “Of course.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not a problem, the hotel and airfare? Maui is expensive in August.”

I bite my tongue. Has she always been this condescending or is it new? “No. We’re doing great. But thanks for the concern.”

“So, uh… I guess I’ll mark you down for a plus one?”

“Yeah.”

“Mom wanted to invite Dean.”

Of course she did. “It’s your wedding. Do what you want.” My younger brother despises Penny. I’d never admit it to the smug bastard, but I envy his easy hatred. I wish I could turn off the part of me that still loves her.

“That’s true. I… I think I will. Does he need a plus one?”

“You know Dean.”

She laughs. “Yeah. How is he?”

“Same as always.” I push off the wall. Focus every bit of my attention on my bare feet against the hardwood. Half a dozen steps and I’m at my desk.

I sit in my eight-hundred-dollar ergonomic chair. Press my palms into my black wood laminate desk. Stare at the sketchbook left open to a mock-up.

It’s lyrics from some song about wanting your ex to die in a fiery car crash.

I even envy that violent bastard of a lyricist.

I wish I wanted Penny to die in agony.

That would be so much easier than wanting her to live by my side forever.

My stomach churns. This conversation is torture. How the fuck am I going to survive watching her walk down the aisle? “You want cash or something off your registry?”

“Ryan…” You’re not supposed to ask that.

I need some way to get through this. A shield. Someone that will convince her I don’t need her. Someone who will get how fucked-up this is.

But the only person who gets this is Leighton.

There’s no way I’m using her as—

There’s no way I’m using her, period.

She’s my best friend.

The only person in the entire world I trust.

The only sliver of light in most of my days.

No fucking way I’m risking that.

I force my voice to steady. “I gotta go. Congratulations, Pen.”

“Thanks. Ryan, I—”

I end the call before she can finish her thought.