Everyone stared when I walked in to work.

Everyone.

I felt my cheeks burning as I booted up my computer and logged in while someone unlocked the front doors. “What is it?” I murmured to Dar, who was sitting in the cubicle next to me. She had on a pressed button-down shirt and khaki pants. “Do I look that bad?”

“Bad?” she said, staring me up and down. “Evie, you look hot. I mean, hot.”

“Stop it,” I hissed. “I do not.”

“You do,” Dar said. “This is casual Friday at a whole new level. James in Customer Relations just about choked on his muffin when you walked by. And the guy fixing the photocopier has a hard-on.”

I looked down at myself. “It’s just a t-shirt and a jean jacket.”

“Sweetie, this is a bank. I’m dressed daringly, and these are Dockers.”

It didn’t take me long to realize she was right. I could see it in people’s faces. Male customers gave me a goggle-eyed glazed look; female customers just looked at me wide eyed, like What the hell? I had been afraid that everyone would know this was a walk of shame outfit: no makeup, no bra, man’s t-shirt and jean jacket, last night’s jeans and boots, hair fixed by some guy’s comb. Instead, I seemed to give off a rock star I-don’t-care attitude, like I was Pat Benatar in a 1980s video.

Or like I was Old Evie.

The Evie from high school, and that crazy first year of college, had worn a walk of shame outfit more than once. She’d slipped home at four a.m., her panties long gone from under her skirt. She’d lied about going to friends’ houses and snuck off to parties instead. She’d come home with her hair smelling of hairspray and cigarette smoke, her breath smelling of vodka and bad decisions. She’d snuck a trip to the doctor’s for birth control, and another trip to the drug store for condoms—which her mother had found, one disastrous morning, under the bed while she was cleaning.

Old Evie had been fun, but she’d gone too far, too. Done genuinely stupid things. One of the things that New Evie understood, now that those days were gone, was that trying some drug you didn’t understand, or giving a guy a blow job in a closet on a dare, were not things you did when you had confidence and self-esteem. They weren’t the way you gained, them, either. They were things you did when a tiny voice inside you, buried deep but never entirely silent, quietly told you to hate yourself. And when you banished that voice, you didn’t do those things anymore.

Last night hadn’t been like that. I hadn’t heard that old voice, that I’d left behind for so long. I’d stayed in the realm of fun, without crossing the line into stupid. And Nick had something to do with that. Nick seemed to know instinctively where that line was.

But it was still far, far too close to Old Evie for comfort.

This is not me, I thought frantically as I served customers, trying to act casual and totally unsexy. I am not this woman. I am not. I sat unnaturally still, so my nipples would stop rubbing against Nick’s t-shirt beneath the jean jacket. I work at a bank. This is normal. Everything is under control.

At eleven my phone vibrated in my purse, and between customers I surreptitiously checked it, keeping the phone under my desk so no one could see. It was a text from Nick. Without thinking, I tapped it.

Dear God.

Too late, I remembered his words: I’ll send you a dirty text if you want. I didn’t know he meant it.

He’d sent me a selfie. He was lying on his sofa, with Scout tucked under his arm. He was shirtless, holding the phone’s camera above him, looking up into the lens. I’d seen that amazing chest and stomach a few hours ago, and I stared now, just as stupefied as I’d been then. The look in his eyes was mischievous and filthy. His free hand was hooked into the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging it down. Just a little. Just… a… little…

Last night was fucking awesome, he’d written. Thinking of you, babe.

I stared at that photo, my nipples hard under the jacket again. And there was a minute, a long aching minute, when I wished all of it was real.

That I’d gone out with Nick last night and we’d had fun, and then wild, dirty sex.

That I was wearing this walk of shame outfit because I’d spent the night having orgasm after filthy orgasm.

That he was texting me now because he was thinking of me, and not because he was faking. And when I finished work, I’d go back to his place yet again, and pull off my shirt, and pull down his sweatpants like he was doing now, and then we’d—

“Jesus, Evie, for fuck’s sake.”

I jumped and slammed the phone down onto my thigh. “What?”

Josh was standing next to my cubicle, looking over my shoulder. He was wearing Dockers and a navy blue flannel shirt for Casual Friday. He had bruises under his eyes, like a raccoon, from where Nick had punched him. His eyebrows were lowered, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at me, livid. “Dirty texts at work?” he said. “From him?”

That made me scowl, even though the dirty text was supposed to be for his benefit. “You didn’t have to look over my shoulder, you know. Which makes it none of your business.”

He didn’t budge. “We need to talk. In private.”

* * *

Reluctantly, I stood and walked with my cheating ex-boyfriend down the hallway to the lunch room. I’d always thought Josh was good-looking, and except for the bruises, he was as good-looking as ever. But now I could barely look at him. I kept a good eight inches away from him, out of the zone of any possible touching, as if we were two magnets pointed the wrong way. People stared at us as we walked down the hall, and I felt my stomach churn.

There was no one in the lunch room, thank God. Once we were through the door, I broke away from him, putting space between us as I opened one of the cupboards and took out a tea bag from my work stash. “So?” I said, trying not to let my voice shake. “What do you want?”

“Last night,” Josh said, his voice accusing. “What the hell were you doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, putting water in my mug.

“Toilet papering my place? Calling me to make disgusting noises?” He sounded angry, but I kept my back turned so I wouldn’t have to look at him. Still, he railed on. “I was late for work because of those stupid tires. You went to some party with Nick Mason, and now he’s naked on your phone. Evie, I warned you about him.”

It had worked then, our little jealousy scheme. “Yeah, you did warn me,” I said to Josh, shoving my mug in the microwave so hard the water sloshed. “I heard you.”

“I mean, what is going on?” he said, still behind me because I wouldn’t look at him. This lovely, uptight rant was making my hangover headache pound in my temples. “This isn’t you. Gina thinks you’re doing this just to get back at me, and I think she’s right.”

That made me turn around. “I do not,” I said, my voice low and more dangerous than I’d ever heard it, “give a shit what Gina thinks. Is that clear?”

Josh looked startled, but he shook his head. “I’m sorry about what happened,” he said. “I already said that. But Evie, there’s no reason to go around putting on an act—”

“Maybe it isn’t an act.” The microwave beeped, and I turned around and yanked my mug from it, throwing my tea bag into the hot water. I had no lunch with me, so this would basically be my sustenance for the day, as gross as it was. “Maybe this is the way I am. You just never saw it.”

“Evie, come on. We dated for four months. I know you pretty well.”

I thought about the girl who’d been so eager to go out with him, so happy she’d been picked. It had been a sign, I was sure, that I was putting my past behind me. That I was finally worth something. I thought about that now—only four months ago—and it made me feel faintly sick. Why had I thought that? That a clean-cut guy, a nice boyfriend, would change who I was for the better? How completely deluded had I been?

“No,” I said to Josh. “I don’t think you know me at all.”

He was watching me, his expression hard to read past the bruises on his face. But it looked a little like disdain. And I wanted to use my newfound fighting skills and punch that expression right off him.

“Evie, come on,” he said. “Get real.” Like he knew everything. Every fucking thing.

“This is real,” I said. “You saw that text. I am…” I forced the words out. “I am sleeping with Nick Mason. What do you think of that?”

Technically, it was true. We’d slept. Quite comfortably. Me, and Nick, and Nick’s gorgeous butt in his boxer briefs. And the other parts I’d felt when I’d jumped on him this morning. Because when I was in bed with a hot bad boy, that’s what I did. I slept, because I was too chicken to do what I wanted.

“Since when?” Josh snapped, his cheekbones going red with anger.

Oh, now I had him. “Since that first night,” I lied, inspired. “When I left with him. And every night since. We can’t keep our hands off each other. We’re in bed all the time. I have so many orgasms I can barely stand it.”

“So that’s it?” Josh said. “You just jumped into bed with some dirtbag? You think you’re that kind of girl?”

The hypocrisy of it—the absolute, utter hypocrisy of Josh disapproving of my fictional sex life after cheating on me—made me gape at him for a second. I always knew there was a double standard, but I’d never seen it this close. “What kind of girl do you mean?” I said. “Sexy? A girl who likes hot guys? A girl who picks her own sex partners? A girl with spark?”

“I hope you don’t think he’s marriage material,” Josh said. “Ask any of the girls he’s dumped. He’s the farthest thing from it. You’re fooling yourself, Evie.”

“I am not looking for marriage material!” I shouted. Dimly, I thought that everyone in the office could probably hear us. But I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“Are you kidding?” Josh shot back. “It’s written all over you. I had to meet your mother the first week. We were practically picking out venues and rings. I had to go looking just so I could feel alive again. And the next day you meet Mason, and now you come to work dressed like a slut.”

That was when I threw the tea cup at him, and watched the hot water splash all over the wall.