Célian: Also—if you did catch the party, that was her cousin. The family was obligated to go. I left early.

Célian: And alone.

Célian: Why am I explaining myself to your message box? Let’s make it awkward for both of us. I’m coming over.

Célian: Open the door.

Célian: I’ll kick it down.

Célian: It’s a dodgy neighborhood, Chucks. Going doorless for a night isn’t ideal, but you asked for it.

I heard the click of the door opening a second after the last text. I looked up. Chucks had on a Sonic Youth hoodie and short shorts. She stared at me through a crack narrower than an ant’s anus.

“Here,” I said, thrusting the flowers—they looked about as wilted as me—and the red chocolate box with the pink cellophane in her direction. “For your stubborn ass, which I would very much like to eat again in the near future.”

“Is this a joke?” She blinked slowly.

I looked around me. Was it? Because it felt serious on an existential level to me. “About the ass or the apology? Never mind. No, in both cases.”

“Well, I don’t accept your apology, and I will not grace the ass comment with a response. Anything else?” she asked, but she was already pushing her door closed.

I spotted her father shuffling behind her. He shook his head when he saw me through the slit in the door.

“Célian,” he scolded. “You’re lucky I’m too sick to kick your ass. Wait. I’d never be too sick to kick your ass.”

“Sir, I’m trying to explain.”

He walked off to the couch, not sparing me another look. I went back to staring at my girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend. Whatever she was. Fuck.

“There’s a perfectly good explanation for everything that’s happened in the last three days.” I tried a different tactic.

For the record, my BA was in pre-law and my masters was in international relations. I was supposed to be good with words. In fact, I knew I was. That did not stop me from shitting all over this encounter.

“Yet there is zero way to explain why you went MIA and brushed me off when the entire world knew you were with your ex,” she countered. “You know, Célian, Milton was wrong about a lot of things. One thing he was right about, though—royalty and plebeians don’t mix. It’s probably very nice to be sitting there on the throne, like you do.”

Did it look like I was having a good fucking time? What gave it away, the fact that I felt like hell, or smelled like it? My teeth ground together.

She swung the door open all the way, parking a hand on her hip. “Actually, I do have something to say, so listen carefully. When my mother died, she said the heart was a lonely hunter. I thought she meant I was incapable of falling in love. Because I never did. I liked Milton, a lot, and some guys in high school, too…” She trailed off.

I was hoping she’d get to the point before I had to kill my way through half of New York. Especially Milton. That guy was so high on my shit list, I doubted it was safe for us to be in the same state.

“But then I found out that’s not what she meant. It was right before we left for Florida. That day my father told me she was actually referring to a book. See, I’d never told him what Mom said. I didn’t want to tarnish how perfect she was in his eyes. Because I love him, and when you love someone, you want to protect them, no matter the cost. And I can’t afford to be with you, Célian, because I love you. But in order to learn how to love, you first need to learn how to live, and hating your parents, running around with your ex-fiancée, and playing power games is just not the way. I deserve more.”

I would tell her I loved her right now if I thought she would believe me. But why would she? I’d acted like an ass for months. Fuck, I wouldn’t believe me, either.

“Give me a chance.”

She shook her head. “No can do.”

“Judith…”

“Don’t do this.” Her eyes pleaded. I said nothing to that. “You will only prove what I just said—that it’s all about you. If you care about me at all, let me go.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Hoping like hell it wasn’t some test I was failing, I ran a hand through my hair, then slammed the chocolate and flowers against her corridor’s wall. Pitted glossy cherries and chocolate smeared down the side of her door.

And they say the French are romantic.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay.”

I found the habit of repeating oneself unappealing. But that was because I was never out of sorts and clueless. I was now, and I didn’t like it one bit.

“Should we revisit this subject next week? Next month? Next year?” Was I even going to survive that kind of time?

“No, Célian. I don’t think we should.”

The door closed in my face. Gently, but firmly, like everything else she did.

I hung my head and shook it, staring at the floor.

She had a Game of Thrones “Hold the Door” mat.

And I fucking let her go. Because she did deserve more.

The heart is a lonely hunter.

My heart was a lonely hunter.

Everything hurt.

I’d always thought I was doomed by not being able to fall in love, but once I did fall, I wished I hadn’t. Now it hurt when I breathed, when I walked the hallways at work, and each time in between, when I caught sight of the person with a sharp suit and even sharper tongue moving past me, firing orders at Brianna or bantering with Elijah and Kate.