My palms are sweating. My heart is pounding. There’s a rushing in my ears.

I’m scared. Meeting your parents shouldn’t scare you, right? Especially since they aren’t violent or anything. Hell, they don’t even cuss. We sit like civilized people twice a month—they’ve been spending more time in Madison lately, ever since dad and his partner opened a satellite office of their law firm here—and have breakfast together.

“Like” civilized people. Because on the surface we’re polite. Cordial. A perfect family. My parents want what’s best for me.

Of course they do. Like they wanted for my sister, Mary, before she bolted, choosing freedom.

I wipe my hands down my pencil skirt and lick my dry lips. Freedom. The sting of anger at her desertion is sharp in my chest. I mean, I understand why she left. I get it. Nowadays I am angrier at myself for not doing the same.

Especially since the reason I’ve stayed in town—Dylan—doesn’t even acknowledge my existence. Which makes me so pathetic I can scarcely recognize myself anymore.

What would happen if I packed a few things and left, like Mary did? If I left everything and everyone behind to start anew?

Approval is what I crave from my parents. Appreciation. A kind word. So I tell myself leaving is the cowardly thing to do, and here I am, trying to fill Mary’s shoes, make up for her desertion. Sometimes I wonder if it’ll ever be enough. If I’ll ever be enough. I try, though. I do my best. It’ll be enough.

That’s what I tell myself every time.

Swallowing the knot of fear in my throat, I force myself to enter the restaurant. My high heels click on the shiny floor, and I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirrors lining the entrance. My blond hair is twisted in a bun, my ears decorated with small diamond rings. My shirt is white and silken, my skirt charcoal gray, my shoes black. Dad can’t find fault with me today. He simply can’t.

And yet…

The usual host comes to take my coat.

“Hi, Nelson.” I smile at the tall, painfully thin and perfectly groomed man, but he only takes my coat and leads me to the usual table where my parents sit. We’re on the sixth floor, and the view over the lake is breathtaking.

Not that I take much notice of it. My parents are seated, staring at me disapprovingly.

Oh God, what did I do now? I glance down at myself. Do I have stains on my clothes? Did I forget to button up my shirt?

“Oh, honey,” Mom says with a long-suffering sigh. “How can you go out without make-up? You look… sallow. Sick. You know your dad doesn’t like it.” Her mouth presses into a flat line.

Crap. I clap a hand on my cheek reflexively, as if I can hide my whole face behind it. How could I forget? It’s the stress of what I want to say to them, I realize, and the reaction I know I’ll get.

“Sit down,” Dad snaps, and it’s a good thing Nelson has drawn back a chair because my knees fold automatically, his command going straight to my muscles, bypassing my brain.

Mom sends me a sympathetic glance, which I ignore. When she’s with my dad—which is almost always—she’s his little lapdog, and she’s even more aggressive than he is.

This meeting isn’t going well, and I’ve yet to open my mouth.

A waiter in a crisp dark suit materializes by my side, startling me, and asks what I would like.

“She’ll have the same as us,” my dad says before I have a chance to speak and gives me a hard look, daring me to contradict him.

Stirring the waters before I say my piece isn’t a good idea. So I clench my jaw and swallow the words that want to surface. “That’s fine.”

Silence spreads as the waiter leaves us to our own devices.

Torture devices, I think morosely, staring out the huge window at the gray sky. My stomach is in such a knot I doubt I’ll be able to swallow anything, not that that’s unusual, especially with what my father had ordered for me.

“So.” Dad takes a bite of his smoked-salmon-on-a-fluffy-bun and washes it down with a sip of French champagne. “I expect college is going well.”

Of course he expects that. He has a lot of expectations.

“It’s fine.” I place my hands on the table, notice I also forgot to renew my manicure and hastily withdraw them and hide them under the table. “The topics are interesting.”

“Have you decided on a direction yet?” Mom inquires, and realizes her mistake too late.

“A direction?” Dad puts his wine glass down so hard it’s a miracle the slim stem doesn’t break. “Her direction in life is set.”

The firm. Leon & Perez. Law experts. My ticket to a rich husband who’ll control my life.

“Of course,” Mom mumbles. She grabs her own glass and downs the contents in one big gulp.

Christ. My throat is dry. This is ridiculous. These are my parents, not executioners. I think. “About that…I wanted to talk to you about—”

“The service here is terrible.” Dad lifts his big hand, waves at the waiter. “More coffee,” he calls. “And rolls. Would you like more cream, Karen?”

My mother shakes her head, her eyes sad.

Yeah. My hands fist under the table. “I want to talk to you about college and my studies—”

“There’s nothing to discuss. We have agreed on the best course of action.”

My fists tighten. “But I’d like to—”

“Enough, Tessa. Where is… ah, finally.” My dad shakes out his white napkin and dabs at his mouth as the waiter brings my breakfast. “That took a while.”

“Apologies, sir,” the poor waiter says as he sets a plate with salmon, cream cheese, butter and rolls in front of me.

I hate fish. My parents know it. It’s an aversion that stems from my childhood, when Dad took me fishing. Seeing the fish flop on the shore, suffocating, dying… Bile rises in my throat.

“Eat,” Dad says. “You’re thin like a rail. No curves at all. Don’t you eat anything except crap with those college kids you insist on hanging out with?”

“I don’t—”

“Do you want to have an argument in here, Tessa? Seriously?” He leans forward, and it takes all I have in me not to flinch away.

He’s never laid a hand on me. Never had to. When I was little, locking me up in in my room was more his style, intimidating me, pushing me into a corner while telling me how stupid I was to think I could outwit or escape him…

Yeah, that’s more his style.

But I’m not a little girl anymore. I try to remember that, even as my body seems to have forgotten it, so I sit up a little straighter and say, “Do you?”

The air temperature drops, like, ten degrees. Imaginary frost spreads over the table. Metaphorical icicles hang over the edge. An ice age has begun.

“Honey…” my mom begins, her eyes wide.

“No, let her say her piece.” My dad’s face is hard. “Let’s see what this new little tantrum is all about.”

And of course now he’s the one in control, the one allowing me to speak. As if I need his permission. What am I doing? Why am I still here, still trying?

“I want to study something I like,” I say, ignoring the sweat trickling down my back. Funny that, it’s not that warm in here… “And I want to drop out of those clubs I hate. Sailing and chess aren’t for me, Dad.”

“Oh, stop being childish, Tessa.”

“I want to help with a charity, and I want to study anthropology,” I say in one breath, knowing my time is limited. This is my pitch. “There are many career options with such a degree. I can be an archaeologist, or I can be a museum curator, or even get involved in social care. I’d love to—”

“You don’t need a damn career.” My father leans toward me, eyes narrowing, and automatically I lean back. “Like your mother, you need a real man to take care of you.”

My hands clench. “That’s not what I need.”

“Sure it is. Who’s been putting ideas into your pretty little head? Those good-for-nothing buddies of yours, those tattooed bums who don’t even step foot in class, who hang around smoking pot and drinking? You think they know better than me what’s best for you?”

My throat closes. “Come on, Dad, I—”

“Don’t. Dad. Me.” His fist knocks into his plate, and it smashes into the wine glass, throwing it over. Champagne spills into my plate and over the tablecloth on my skirt. I gasp and push away, my chair scraping on the floor.

I stare at them, my breathing ragged, my limbs shaking.

Mom busies herself with her roll, buttering it with a trembling hand. At the periphery of my vision, I see the waiter inching away.

“Honestly…” A vein ticks in Dad’s jaw. “I pay for your school, your apartment, your perfumes, your hairdresser and your damn jewelry. I pay,” he jabs a finger at me, “for your every breath. My decisions aren’t good enough for you? Like hell they aren’t.”

“Jonas…” Mother is growing pale.

Jesus.

That’s it, I think. This is when I say goodbye and walk away, gather my stuff and leave this goddamn place.

“Honey, please.” My mother’s voice is a low whine. “Don’t hurt us like your sister did.”

Talk about a low blow. I grit my teeth and resist the painful urge to stand and turn my back to them. Seriously? I just wanted to discuss what I want for once. Not for the first time, I think that best would be to leave college, leave everything and…

“Let’s not argue,” my mom says.

“I’m not the one arguing,” I mutter.

“Your father loves you and wants you to be happy,” she goes on, in the face of all evidence to the contrary. I mean, Jesus, the wine is soaking through my skirt, dripping down my legs, and his voice still echoes in my ears. “In fact,” she sends him a quick look, “he could be persuaded to discuss what you want to do if you come to the Autumn Glitter gala the Jensons are organizing next week, the one we told you about.”

Strangely, my father remains silent, his gaze darting from my mother to me. What the hell is going on?

“Really?” Suspicion tightens my insides, but if that means any sort of real talk, any sort of compromise, meeting half-way… Making my parents happy and also doing what I want… “Fine.”

“You’re coming to the gala?” My father’s look is every ounce as suspicious as mine has to be.

“I’ll come.” I focus on my drenched plate and poke at one of the rolls. “If it means so much to you.”

“It does. I’m glad you changed your mind about it,” he says, grabs his fork and spears a slice of smoked salmon.

I say nothing to that. Like every time, I hope he’ll take a step, too, try to understand me, accept me. Let me be. So I’m going to this damn gala, giving in to his demands like every single time, giving hope a chance.

And like every single time, I fear I’ll be proven wrong.

“So, what did your parents say?” Audrey plops her tray on the table in the college cafeteria and slides into her seat, her big green eyes narrowed at me. “How did they take it?”

What to say to that? I swallow a sigh as I take my seat across from her and carefully put my tray down. I stare at the salad, the pasta and dessert I got, and have no idea if I can ever eat all that food. “Do you think I’m too skinny?”

Audrey’s brows shoot up to her hairline. “Sorry, what?”

“Skinny,” I repeat, eyeing my Alfredo pasta as if it’s to blame for everything wrong in my life. “As in, no curves. Ugly skeletal appearance. Maybe I should eat more. Maybe—”

“Tess.” Audrey’s cinnamon brows are now drawn together over her eyes, and her mouth is pressed tight.

“What?”

“You do realize you’re the most beautiful woman I know, right?”

I smile, but it’s half-hearted. “Are you coming on to me, Aud?”

“Nah, I’ve known you for too long. It’d be like incest.”

That makes me laugh, but then I think of Dylan whom I’ve known for just as long, and my throat closes. Because there’s nothing sisterly about my feelings for him.

“In any case,” I croak, “that doesn’t mean I couldn’t do with more generous curves, or bigger boobs.”

“Tess, come on. We’ve talked about this.” Her voice softens. “Your parents… they aren’t you. They try to control you in every way. Don’t let them.”

I shake my head. “But what if they’re right? What if I should eat more?”

“Girl, you eat like a guy, I swear. I mean, just compare our trays!”

I glance at hers. It contains a sandwich with light turkey ham and cheese, and a bottle of water. Mine has the pasta, salad, a cheesecake cup and a Coke.

“Okay, fine. But I have a high metabolism. Maybe I am skinny, and I have no curves. Not like yours.”

She grimaces. “God. Your parents really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I lift my fork and stab a lettuce leaf.

“Yes, you do. You’re perfect, and changing your looks won’t give you what you need. Stop looking for excuses.”

“But maybe if I was curvier…”

“Tess.” Audrey’s eyes are too bright. Crap. She looks like she’s about to cry. “Let go.”

“What? I’m only saying maybe I should eat more.”

“Let him go, Tess.” Audrey bites her lip and looks down at her plate. “Jesus, don’t you see what you’re doing? Dressing up for your parents and studying what they want, then trying to change yourself to please Dylan, and neither your parents nor Dylan give a fuck!”

My fork drops from my fingers and clatters on the tray. I gape at Audrey. She never talks like that. Never.

In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her so angry before.

“Stop chasing him,” she continues. “Stop expecting your parents to take notice of your efforts and accept you as you are. People don’t change.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” I whisper. “Your mom loves you as you are. Ash can’t look anywhere but at you when you’re close by. Is it wrong to wish that, too?”

Now she looks stricken. “I’m sorry.” She grabs her water bottle and unscrews the lid, not looking at me. “I’ve no right to tell you what to do.”

“No, Aud.” I reach across the table and put my hand over hers. “You’re right.” I nod, and my eyes burn. “You’re absolutely right, and I’ll try harder, okay?”

“No. Dammit.” She jerks away, her cheeks so red her freckles look like ink dots. “Not for me, too, okay? You don’t get to do it to please me, too. You need to do it for yourself.”

“Aud…”

“Honestly, Tess. This isn’t funny. You’re gorgeous. Every single guy on campus wants to get into your pants.” Audrey counts her arguments on her fingers, one by one. “You have so many interests, archaeology, folklore, mythology, history. You’re fun, and can dance like a goddess.”

She stops counting and wags a finger at me. “You rock, woman. Don’t let anyone, and especially your parents, tell you otherwise. Decide what you want to do with your life, with yourself. Would you rather finish your studies and work for your dad, doing every day something you hate? Would you rather wait forever for Dylan to notice you while the world is full of wonderful boys waiting to meet you? Would you?”

Christ. Is she right? Am I really wasting my life? Have I waited too long already?

Then again, how long is too long? I’ve struggled to please my parents since I was little. I tried to get Dylan to notice me since I was ten, when I discovered boys. Even more since he went out with me for a few months, showed me what happiness was like and then dumped me and never looked back.

Ignoring me, just like my parents have always done. Yeah, seen like that, it really looks pathetic. Why, then, have I always felt, deep inside, that he has feelings for me?

“Speak of the devil…” Audrey frowns, and I twist around to see.

Sure enough, there is Dylan, and like always my breath catches at the sight of him. He’s standing at the cashier, clutching his tray, his dirty blond hair falling in his face. His broad shoulders stretch the soft black sweater he’s wearing tight across his chest, and his faded blue jeans hug his trim hips and long legs.

He turns toward the tables and takes a step—then he stumbles, and his plate falls and crashes to the floor.

I’m already halfway out of my seat, fear clenching my gut, to go to him—when a brunette in a miniskirt walks up to him and puts a hand on his arm. He says something to her, lost in the din of the cafeteria, and she smiles, hooks her arm with his and walks with him to a table.

I sit back down, my heart hammering. Holy crap. I really thought he’d hurt himself for a moment… I look at the brunette, the way she keeps brushing herself against him as she talks to him.

When will I learn? He doesn’t need me. He doesn’t want me. I cling to the memories of him, the way he made me feel. Cherished. Loved. Protected.

“Jesus. Sometimes I really hate him,” Audrey whispers, glancing in Dylan’s direction, then back at her plate. “For being so cold with you. And sometimes I want to kick you for crawling back to him every time.”

Her words sting like barbs.

“I don’t crawl,” I mutter. I have my pride, even though it’s a small, frightened thing. “He’s my friend above all. What should I do, let him fall?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

A tiny bit of anger flares, warming me. “What I know is that you don’t like Dylan. He wasn’t the most supportive of friends when Asher was down.”

“Jesus, Tess. You know that’s not it.”

“Everyone says he’s in a tough spot right now, remember?”

“And then what? Do you think when everything’s fine for him at home he’ll run to you?”

“I don’t…” A knot is lodged in my throat, and I swallow hard. This conversation hurts in ways my parents’ coldness never has. “Just drop it.”

Audrey’s eyes flash. “Do what you want. I certainly can’t tell you what to do or not do.”

Yeah, but she doesn’t have to. I see the disappointment in her gaze, barely hidden behind the fury. And just like every time, that terrible guilt eating at me—for not being what everyone expects, for failing my family and friends, for not being pretty enough, clever enough, good enough—rears its ugly head and forces me to do things I don’t want to do.

Like sit straight and not look back at Dylan flirting with the brunette. Pretending to be strong.

It’s only later, after Audrey has left and I’m gathering my tray, that I allow myself to look at the table where Dylan is sitting.

The brunette’s gone. He’s alone, staring down at his hands that are clasped in front of him. He looks tired and sad, and my heart goes out to him.

But Audrey’s words echo in my head. Who am I doing this for? What do I hope? Why am I doing this to myself every time?

Closing my eyes briefly, I suck in a deep breath, stand up and turn to go.

Halo is the gang’s new favorite hang-out. Christmas lights flicker on the walls of the bar. They’re draped over tables and mirrors, festooned over the long bar. Little cherubs hang over our heads, blowing trumpets and playing lyres.

The décor has always bothered me, no idea why. Maybe it’s the connection to Christmas time. All that fake cheer. All those presents I don’t want, the dinners I’m forced to attend, and the smiles I’m obliged to paste on.

I think again of my sis, Mary, who’s now living in Chicago and sometimes calls me, sounding all excited and happy about her new life.

But maybe Dad will take a step back, after all. Maybe he’ll let me study what I want and forget about finding me a husband to marry, say, “If that’s what makes you happy, Tessa. I’m proud of you.”

I’ve waited for those words for so long. For any sign of my father’s love. A real smile directed toward me. A hug. A word of praise.

Jeez. What a pity party.

“What do you think, Tessa?” Zane asks, and I blink, returning to my surroundings.

“What about?”

“Where’s your mind wandering, girl?” Zane’s wrapped around Dakota like a human parka, his chin resting on top of her wild dark hair. He’s been like that ever since he came out of the hospital and announced Dakota is his girl. She seems very happy to be his girl, too.

It’s so cute. So sweet it hurts.

“We’re talking about Dylan,” Erin says, from her place between Tyler’s legs. His arms are around her waist. “How did he seem to you the other day? Audrey said you ran into him at the cafeteria on campus. She also says you’re in a class with him.”

I turn to look at Audrey, trying to gauge her mood—but she’s in Asher’s arms, and he’s whispering something in her ear that’s making her giggle.

All this love… I lower my gaze. It’s not that it’s making me jealous. Not really, although I’d be lying if I said I don’t miss going out alone with the girls. Now they’re spending more time with their boyfriends, and that’s great. I’m just… a bit lonely. I wish I had what they have, too.

Crap, they’re all still waiting for me to speak.

“He’s in my biology class,” I manage. “But he’s only made it once so far. And in the cafeteria… Audrey can tell you. He seemed tired. He almost dropped his tray.”

And then a busty, pretty brunette stepped in to help and entertain him. Not me. Never me.

I just want to smash those pretty cherubs hanging over the bar right now. Break them to pieces. Break myself. End this never-ending doubt and misery.

“I bet it’s his dad’s doing,” Zane says, dark eyes scanning the crowd inside the bar. He’s looking for Rafe, who hasn’t arrived yet. “Not a year ago, that fucker left the care of his kids on Dylan’s shoulders and took off, and whenever he’s back he expects to be coddled, fed and cleaned, as well.”

“Dylan’s dad is depressed,” Ash says, over Audrey’s shoulder. “Depression is a sickness. He can’t help it. He needs help himself.”

I knew Dylan’s dad struggled with depression. I thought he was better. Not that Dylan ever talked to me about it.

Goes to show how little I know Dylan anymore.

There was a time I knew everything about him—back when we were fourteen, when he held me in his arms in the evenings and whispered all his thoughts in my ear, about the past, the present and the future. When he clutched my hand as we crossed the street and then as we sat together, our sides touching, our heartbeats synchronized, our lives joined.

After that, after he broke up with me, we were friends, meeting in parties and going out for drinks with the guys, talking on the phone. But recently… Recently we haven’t even had that. Not for the past year. When his Dad left, Dylan grew distant and cold. Distracted. Angry. Lost.

Too many losses.

“Teo, his little brother has been sick on and off,” Zane says. “Could be the stress from their dad moving out, though it’s been a while since the bastard left. Must be a year now.”

Tyler whistles, his dark brows drawing together. “His brother’s what, five?”

“Six,” Ash says.

“Goddammit. Poor kid.”

Tyler feels strongly when it comes to little kids. His own son is four, and Tyler’s fiercely protective of him, and Erin.

“He has another brother, right?” Audrey asks.

“Miles,” I say, my mind a million miles away. “He’s ten.”

“Still, Dylan doesn’t look as bad as he did two months ago,” Dakota says, and squirms in Zane’s arms until he relaxes his tight hold. She pats his arm absently. “Maybe things aren’t that bad for him right now. He kept his job, didn’t he? The one you were all concerned he might lose?”

There. Dylan’s fine. He doesn’t need me. Not that he ever expressed any need for me, not after he broke up with me so many years ago. If he needs anything, he’s far more likely to ask any of the other guys for help. I’m invisible to him, even when I throw birthday parties for him, or ask about his day, or his classes. He pulled away from everyone—but mostly from me.

“Coming to our concert, Saturday night?” Dakota asks, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. “Nine o’ clock, Crow Feet.”

“You should go,” Audrey pipes in. “Quinn really likes you.”

I open my mouth, close it, try again. “Who’s Quinn?”

“Quinn plays the guitar in our group, and he also sings,” Dakota says, shooting Audrey a wide-eyed look.

Yeah, she doesn’t know of Audrey’s conspiracy to find me a guy and make me forget all about Dylan. Audrey wants everyone to be happy.

If only it were that easy…

“Saturday,” I say and then I remember something. “I can’t.”

“Come on, it will be fun,” Ash says.

“I promised my parents I’ll go to the Autumn Glitter gala. It’s organized by some friends of theirs.” Friends being used loosely. More like people who can make them money. More money, that is. “It was cancelled, and now they changed their mind again and are running in circles trying to find security and catering.”

Though why I should care…

“Can’t you un-promise?” Audrey mutters.

“Sorry.” Figures that now I feel guilty for letting my friends down on top of feeling slightly terrified of having agreed to my parents’ needling just because…. Just because I still have hope.

Hope is dangerous. When will I ever learn?

Dylan doesn’t show up in biology class again. Concentrating on the professor is hard. I worry about Dylan.

Surely I have a right to worry, as a friend, right? And his not showing up again isn’t a good sign.

And it’s not just Dylan I’m worried about. The damn gala is coming up this weekend and I have a really bad feeling about it.

I don’t know why. My parents have forced me into going to lots of social events over the years, and mostly it’s not too bad. I dress up, show up, mingle a little, and they ease up on me for a while.

Thinking more about it, it must be the strange way my father relented on the topic of studies on the condition of me going to the gala. My studies, my future, have been a sore points since my school days.

Why is this gala so important to him?

I shouldn’t think about it any longer. My hunches have often proven wrong. Like, I thought Dylan wanted me, that he loved me, and I couldn’t have been more wrong.

And here I go again, thinking about Dylan… Christ.

The gala will be fine. I’ll be all right. The one person I’m truly afraid of meeting in those social circles is Sean, Sean Anholt, but he moved to England to go to Oxford. I haven’t seen him in almost a year now, not since that last disastrous meeting at my parents’ house last winter, and that’s a good thing.

Sean. A cold shiver runs through me. A sudden memory of his mouth crushing mine, his teeth breaking the skin, so all I tasted was blood, his hands bruising my wrists, his weight trapping me…

Oh God. My heart is thumping so hard everyone must hear it in the classroom. The class isn’t over, but I don’t care. I grab my notebook and pen, sling my bag over my shoulder, and hurry out. My panting breaths sound too harsh in my ears. All the self-defense lessons in the world can’t erase the memory of what he did—the fear, the helplessness, the defeat.

Sean is gone. He can’t hurt me again. At least my parents have stopped pushing me to go out with him. Jesus.

We were only together for one brief summer vacation in my last year of school. I went to visit my parents and they invited Sean over. He was charming at first, and he lavished presents on me that left me speechless. We lounged on his yacht, went to crazy, glamorous parties. He brought me white roses and champagne. I was only sixteen, and still heartbroken over Dylan.

Some things never change…

Anyway, Sean distracted me from my sadness over Dylan, and I was grateful for it. I had fun, and my parents encouraged me to spend time together with Sean. Such a lovely young man, they said. Son of such a respected family. A prince fit for their daughter.

It was summer, and a day with his friends on the yacht turned into a day with me and him alone. He insisted we toast the fate that brought me to him, the great summer weather, the way I looked today, the time that ticks by… He kept refilling my glass with fine champagne, until I passed out on the deck chair.

Only to wake up with his hands on me, ripping off my clothes. I was clumsy with sleep and alcohol, but still I fought him. Back then I thought he was handsome, true, but I didn’t want anyone but Dylan. When Sean pushed his tongue into my mouth, I almost threw up. I scratched at his arms, pushed at him, slapped him. He didn’t stop. He spread my legs and forced himself on me.

At least he used a condom. That’s what I kept telling myself afterward, after he took me back home, and I told my stony-faced parents what happened. They didn’t believe me, or said they didn’t. Sean wouldn’t do something like that, they said, not if I didn’t want it.

The blame was on me, apparently, for flirting with him, making him believe I wanted him. The fact he violated me as I was drunk and passed out, when I pushed and clawed at him, that didn’t count.

Oh God, why am I remembering this now? I don’t wanna remember.

I stagger down the hallway, heading toward the cafeteria. I need to be around people, to drown in noise and let human voices drive the icy clutch of fear from my mind.

The familiar chatter fills my ears as soon as I step inside, and I grab a juice. As I wait to pay, I absently scan the tables. Wild hair, wilder clothes, outrageous make-up. Your typical college students.

Except the guy sitting alone at a table in a corner. No wild hair or clothes, and yet he snags my gaze, hooks me and reels me in. I study the familiar close-cropped blond hair, the beautiful profile, the powerful shoulders stretching his gray sweater.

Dylan.

My turn comes to pay for my juice, and I’m so distracted I drop my purse and spill coins everywhere.

Laughter ripples around me. Yeah, your typical college student is also easily amused.

Mortified, I glance in Dylan’s direction, but he seems lost in thought. Thank God. I pay and clutch my juice like a shield in front of me as I make my way toward him. After thinking about Sean, Dylan’s presence makes me feel better. Safe. Warm.

So I approach, taking him in. He’s dressed in well-worn jeans and that old sweater he’s had since high school. He needs no expensive suits. With his broad shoulders and trim body, he’s so hot he’d put any male model to shame.

It strikes me how much he’s grown from the boy he was when we dated, or even from the boy he was a year ago, with the long, purple bangs. It’s like he’s shed all playfulness, all childishness, as if he had to give it up overnight.

Not sure why, but it makes me sad.

“Hey,” I say, and sit across from him.

He starts, pushing back from the table, and I frown as I notice the dark bags under his blue eyes, and how thin his handsome face has become. He hasn’t shaved for at least a couple of days, and his jaw is covered in golden stubble.

“Tess,” he whispers, and my breath catches. He never calls me that nowadays. “What do you want?”

“You didn’t show up in biology class,” I say, before I lose my nerve. “And I haven’t talked to you in a while. Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” he mutters.

“You’ve missed many classes already.”

“I never enrolled in that class. Or any class.”

“You never…” My brain stalls. “Then why did you show up on the first day?”

“Because I hoped I could do this,” he snaps, and it’s my turn to flinch. “I’m not enrolled in college. Not anymore.”

“That’s a pity,” I whisper. My chest aches.

He gets up. “Look, I’ve got to go.”

“Yeah.” I nod, finally accepting what Audrey has been telling me all along. “Take care, Dylan.”

His eyes narrow. “What’s this about?”

“This is about me,” I say and unscrew the lid off my juice with shaky hands.

“What do you mean?” His face is pale, the silver ring in his lip glinting dully in the fluorescent lights of the cafeteria.

I force myself to look away. “I mean,” I say softly, “this is goodbye.”