One advantage of living on a mountain is not having to shop for groceries at the usual big name stores. Just a few miles away from the base of the mountain, there’s a road that winds through the valley between our mountain and another to the west. There are enough shops and stores along the road to service the few thousand people who live on the mountains around here. With the exception of the Starbucks, there are no brand name stores. Everything is named after so-and-so’s grandfather or great-great-grandmother.

Amelia and I are in Mac’s grocery to get enough basics to make it through another week. “Have you thought any more about Evo? The beauty school?” Amelia asks, as if I could’ve forgotten after she told me the price tag.

“We’ll just have to see,” I say. I’m not giving her my full attention, and I feel guilty for it, but I can’t stop thinking about my two run-ins with Chris Savage last week. It's been a few days since he smashed my dignity to pieces and tossed me out, but it feels like the sting of his dismissal only gets worse with every passing day.

It’s the weirdest thing with him, though. I remember having a burrito once that was so spicy I couldn’t taste anything but the heat. When I complained about it to Brooke, she told me to use sweet chili sauce to take the edge off. All it took was a little sweet, and I was able to taste all the flavors. That restaurant ended up being one of my favorite burrito places. Chris reminds me of that. He’s shown me just enough potential from the poet that he can be on the page, and the brief flashes of charm and kindness he has shown in person, but I still can’t see him through all the anger and meanness he wears like a shield.

His personality brings a side out of me I don't usually see, too. I've never been one to be overly assertive with strangers, even if I have had to step into more of mother's role with Amelia. My natural inclination is to avoid conflict and seek the path of least resistance. But that manuscript… I wasn't kidding when I said it'd take the world by storm. Hell, he could release it as-is and he'd have millions of people clamoring for part two.

“Lindseeey,” Amelia singsongs. She gently flicks my ear with a grin. “You’re thinking about a boy. I know that look.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I’m definitely not thinking about a boy.” There’s nothing boyish about Chris. Arrogant jerk, yes. Rude as hell, yes. Boy? No, unfortunately not. It’d be easier to hate him if he was what I always imagined an author to look like. Maybe a frail guy with a belly who wears turtlenecks and circular glasses that he refers to as “spectacles”. If a guy like that treated me the way Chris does, it’d be easier. Although apparently even a guy like Chris can’t get away with treating me like dirt. He may have softened my view of him just a touch by telling me he liked my email, but he still has a lot of ground to make up if he ever expects me to like him Not that I think he particularly cares what I think anyway. It’s not the man that has me still thinking about what happened constantly, it’s the books.

Why should someone so horrible be so gifted?

“What’s his name?” Amelia asks, not buying my lie for a second.

“Chris,” I say with a sigh.

“Ooh. You know, every Chris I’ve ever known has been a cutie.” She nudges me, smiling. “Well?”

“The streak lives,” I say grudgingly. “But he’s an ass. So it’s irrelevant.”

“But is he an ass with an ass?” she asks.

I can’t help but laugh. “Yes, he’s an ass with an unfortunately impressive ass.”

She purses her lips. “How bad could he really be?”

“Bad. But the frustrating part is I don’t think it’s genuine.”

“What do you mean?”

I look up at the fluorescent lights overhead like they’ll give me a way to explain the confusing feelings I have about him. “I don’t know… I guess it’s like if you were a doctor trying to treat a patient with a bullet wound, but they just kept poking at it and ripping away the bandages, you know? Making it worse on purpose. I just don’t buy it. I don’t think he’s really the guy he is trying to make me think he is, and some dumb part of me wants to go back because I want to know what would make somebody pretend to be that way.”

Amelia grins.

“What?” I snap.

“You like him.”

“No,” I say. “No. I like him as much as I like a mosquito bite.”

She jabs her finger at me, eyes widening and eyebrows shooting up. “Knew it! You once told me you actually like mosquito bites because it feels so good to scratch them.”

“Yeah, well Chris Savage is like a mosquito bite between the toes. No fun to scratch and a total…” I trail off when I see the expression on Amelia’s face and realize I just said his full name.

She moves in front of my shopping cart, planting her hands on it, keeping me from moving. “This Chris guy you’re talking about is the Chris Savage?” She turns to a rack of magazines on the other side of the aisle, which, of course, happens to have a stack of magazines with Chris’ face plastered all over them. The headline reads, “Insider Spills About Savage.”

“Sort of,” I say, eying the headline with an embarrassing amount of curiosity. Spills what about Savage? Only Amelia being beside me stops me from actually grabbing a copy to read, even though I’m sure it’s just some bogus story to sell magazines.

“Can I meet him?” she asks. “I have to meet him. I need to get a new outfit though, definitely something new. Maybe—”

“Amelia,” I say as sternly as I can. “You’re not meeting him. He’s toxic. Like a poisonous toad.”

“Those are only poisonous if you lick them or try to eat them, though…” she says, putting a finger to her chin and biting her lip. “No promises that I wouldn’t try.”

“Not happening,” I say in my that is final voice.

The excitement falls from her face. “You know, maybe for once, you could let me make a decision for myself. I’m not as helpless as you and Brooke think.”

I reel back, completely caught off guard. Amelia has always seemed like a carefree puppy to me. Insulated from the world by Brooke and I so she can just enjoy the moment and live outside all the worry. In a single moment, I see I am wrong. We kept her from the worst of it, but she’s right. She’s old enough to read between the lines, and we are both wrong to think we can keep her in the dark.

“You’re right,” I say. “But to be fair, I’ve never thought you were helpless. I only wanted to protect you, too much, probably, but I’ll… I’ll work on it, okay?”

She flashes a hesitant smile. “Really?”

“Really. But this Chris Savage thing is different. Helpless or not, you’re still my little sister. I can start including you in more, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to throw you in front of a bus.”

“He’s a writer,” she says dryly. “Not a speeding bus.”

“Lindsey?” asks a woman from behind me.

When I turn around, I see Claire, Ryan’s girlfriend. The enemy, a voice in my head growls stupidly. She’s not the enemy though. I was engaged to Ryan a little over a year ago before we broke things off, but it didn’t have anything to do with Claire. It had everything to do with the fact that Ryan wasn’t ready to “settle down.” Which was already clear from the way he couldn’t keep his eyes off anything with boobs. It’s hard not to feel the blow to my confidence when I see that barely a year later, he’s apparently ready to settle down with her.

“Heyyy,” I say, squeezing a smile out that probably looks plastic, but it’s the best I can do on short notice. Claire is everything I’m not, which doesn’t help the whole bruised ego thing. She has tattoos on her arms and probably just about everywhere else I can’t see, too. She has piercings, black hair with bright pink highlights, and she actually has boobs. Her face is obnoxiously cute, with perfect porcelain skin and dainty features that somehow manage to make her look sweet and sexy despite the tattoos and piercings that’d make most women look intimidating or scary.

I absentmindedly fuss with my hair and clothes, tucking my bland curls behind my ear, and smoothing some wrinkles from the t-shirt I threw on over a pair of everyday jeans.

“You must be Amelia,” Claire says, moving forward to hug my surprised little sister like they’ve been friends forever. “Ryan told me all about you. I swear, he loved you like his own little sister.”

Amelia makes a face at me over Claire’s shoulder that would be comically confused and scared if I didn’t have so much resentment boiling over inside me.

“Hi,” says Amelia sheepishly. “Love your tattoos.”

“So,” I say with an edge to my voice. I try to stop myself from doing what I know I’m about to do, but can’t seem to. “You guys are getting married at the lighthouse? That will be so pretty.” Because it’s where I dreamed of getting married since I was a little girl, a fact Ryan knew.

I see the momentary surprise on Claire’s face that tells me everything I need to know. She had no idea Ryan invited us. He probably knew I wouldn’t come to the wedding and didn’t think he’d ever have to explain why he’d invite me to Claire.

"Uh, yeah," she says, recovering quickly with a warm smile. "Ryan is so excited about the venue. It's adorable."

“Oh?” I ask. “Was that his idea? The lighthouse?”

Amelia nudges me in the side, probably trying to warn me to stay civil, but I’m already going downhill with this and there’s no stopping now. All the unfairness of it and the embarrassment and sadness that never really left my system after the breakup are pushing me forward, even though Claire seems nice.

“Yep,” she says. “He said he never knew why, but it always just seemed like the right place to have his wedding.”

As if on cue, a man walks halfway past our aisle, spots Claire, and then turns to walk toward us. Ryan.

“Hey, did you want a ribeye or—oh, Lindsey. Amelia. Hey,” he says. He doesn’t even have the decency to sound embarrassed. If anything, there’s a taunting edge to his voice.

I flash him a smile, trying my best to make it look fake this time. “It’s good to see you,” I say with false cheer.

“Hi Ryan,” Amelia says sounding like she’d like a bomb shelter or a bunker right about now.

Ryan slides his arm around Claire’s waist, low enough that his fingers are brushing her ass, just like the way he used to hold me. I can’t think about my past with him without feeling sad and stupid. It all seems clear now that I’m out of it, and all the anger I feel toward him is more for letting me waste three years of my life deluding myself that he was different than he seemed.

I see it now. He's tall, broad and his years of playing linebacker in college are still evident in the way he's built. No matter how hard I try though, I can't see what I saw three years ago when I met him at a frat party. I should've known any relationship that started at a frat party should never continue after college, but it was all just too easy. I wasn't even a frat party kind of girl, but I let a friend talk me into going to one because she kept asking me what was the worst thing that could happen? I don’t know, maybe I end up wasting three years with some dumb jock who will still go out of his way to make me feel like shit even after we break up? When I got busy with work and school, it was easier to already have a boyfriend and skip the whole dating scene. After college, it was easy to say yes when he proposed because it meant I could just keep moving in the same direction.

Hasn’t that always been what I’ve done? Follow the path of least resistance. The guy of least resistance. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised I ended up where I am, unhappy more days than not and never able to think about much except how we’re going to scrape together the cash for next month’s bills.

In the moment, it’s easy to blame it all on Ryan. So I do. I let the heat in my belly grow warmer and warmer until it feels like the only thing I’ll be able to do is spit fire. “The lighthouse, huh?” I ask sweetly.

He makes a face and shrugs like he's saying, yeah, what’s the big deal?

“Did you tell your new fiancée about how getting married there was always my dream? Or how the only reason you suggested it to her was to get back at me?” I look to Claire, who is clearly not taking this news very well if the confused frown she’s directing at Ryan is any indication. “I’m sorry,” I say to her. “You actually seem nice. He has a talent for convincing nice people they don’t deserve better than him.”

“Lindsey,” says Amelia through tight lips, pulling on my arm a little to separate us.

“Damn, Lindsey,” says Ryan, who is grinning like none of this matters. “You get into the ole boxes of wine again? You still drinking that shit?” he asks with an obnoxious laugh.

I let all the bitterness that I’ve held in since the breakup boil over and I actually lunge for him. I don’t know what I’m planning, whether it’s just to push him or claw at him or something, but my body reacts before my brain has a chance to calm it down.

Amelia manages to hold me back, but now Claire’s anger toward Ryan all seems directed at me.

“Look,” she says hotly. “You’ve obviously got some baggage. Some serious fucking baggage. Ryan is mine now, and you need to get the fuck over him and stop acting like a psychopath." She puts her hand on Ryan's shoulder and tries to push him away from me, but Ryan is clearly enjoying this too much.

“So you’re not coming?” he asks with a twisted grin.

Amelia has to double her efforts to hold me back. It's not even about Ryan because I could care less about him now. I mean, yes, the wedding invitation pissed me off, but not because I wish it was me who would be standing across from him at the altar. It pissed me off because it was just an unpleasant reminder of how completely out of my mind I was to think a guy like Ryan was right for me in the first place.

“There you are,” a masculine voice behind me says.

When I turn toward the sound, I’m eye-level with a muscular chest that’s barely concealed by a white shirt. It’s Chris. Did someone schedule a reunion for all the assholes of my past and present at the grocery store or something?

“What do you—”

Chris puts his arm around me like it’s the most natural thing in the world, pulling me close and causing Amelia to let go of me with wide-eyed disbelief. His arm is so hard and warm. The closeness of him bathes me in his scent, which is equal parts pine forest and something I can only think to describe as manly. Like the way I imagine models and celebrities would smell if they walked straight out of fashion magazine ads. Then again, I guess Chris is basically both model and celebrity, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised.

My first impulse is to snake out of his reach because I’m so done with him I can’t even call it pissed. Pissed would imply I care enough about him to have a recurring emotion that involves him. I don’t even want to dignify him with that. I met him. He showed me he’s a total ass. End of story. Well, sort of end. He had to go and drop a few breadcrumbs to make me think that maybe, just maybe, there's a good guy hiding in there somewhere, and knowing me, I'm not going to be able to entirely forget him until I find out one way or another.

It feels good to have his arm around me, though. It feels even better to see the way Ryan and Claire are staring at us like I just grew angel wings and started levitating while trumpets blare in the distance.

“Friends of yours, honeybuns?” Chris asks punctuating his question by squeezing my ass so hard I jump and let out a very undignified squeal.

I’m too confused to even slap him or react beyond standing there just as dumbfounded as everyone else, except now my cheeks are burning too.

“You’re that washed up celebrity, right?” Ryan asks once he’s regained a little of his composure. “Chris something, right?”

“Savage,” Claire says looking and sounding like she’s in a trance.

“That’s me. So, how do you know my girl?” he asks.

“Your girl?” Ryan asks. “Lindsey?”

No matter how I feel about Chris, I feel an immediate and eternal gratitude toward him for the gift he just gave me: the look on Ryan’s face. It looks like Ryan sucked on a lemon and got anally probed at the exact same moment. Like his brain is about to explode as he tries to make sense of what he’s seeing and hearing.

Amelia is watching us suspiciously, but her suspicion doesn’t seem to be enough to keep her from ogling Chris.

“My girl,” he says. “I could go into detail if you’re still confused, like the way it sounds when she moans my name or—”

I elbow him in the side. I can’t even make myself look at Amelia right now. It’s going to take a miracle to convince her this was just an act by Chris. Especially because I can’t begin to fathom why the cold and icy writer would suddenly decide to step in and help me save face in front of my ex.

“Whatever, man. You can have her,” Ryan says but his tone isn’t quite as carefree as he is probably going for. “Come on, Claire.”

“Would it be terrible to ask you for an autograph?” Claire asks.

The furious look Ryan gives her is the second best moment of my day. “You fucking kidding me?” he asks her.

“It’s Chris Savage!” she hisses.

Chris whips out a black sharpie from his back pocket and takes a step toward her. “Got anything for me to sign?”

Claire pats her pockets and winces. “Shit, no. Ryan, do you have a paper or a receipt or something?”

“Fuck off,” he says, arms crossed as he sulks.

“Here,” Chris says taking his hand off me to pull her shirt down enough so he can sign her chest—not really her cleavage, but the flat and relatively innocent part below her collarbone in a space between two tattoos.

Everybody but Claire and Chris roll their eyes in disbelief, and Ryan yanks Claire away when he’s done, leaving me alone with my little sister and Chris.

“If you’re expecting me to thank you for that,” I say hotly, but I force myself to pause when I think about it. In all fairness to him, he was an asshole to me when I trespassed on his property and acted like a crazy fan. I can at least be civil now that he helped me out. “Well, you deserve a thank you. The look on Ryan’s face was priceless.”

Chris cocks a half-smile. “He looked like a douche. I just saw a chance to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face and took it.”

“Hi,” Amelia says scooting out from behind me and waving at Chris before quickly squeezing her hands together between her legs like she has to pee or she’s about to start jumping up and down.

“She yours?” asks Chris.

“How old do you think I am?” I snap.

“Hm,” he says, lifting up my hair and making a show of inspecting me. “Twenty-five. And your daughter is what, thirteen, fourteen? It’s possible. Technically.”

“I’m her sister,” says Amelia. “And I’m twenty-one, actually. Old enough to drink and vote.”

“Wow,” says Chris with feigned enthusiasm. “Drinking and voting. You girls must have a great time, then.”

“Is it some kind of compulsion for you to make sure people think you’re an asshole?” I ask. “Because you go and do something a little nice, and then you have to try extra hard to remind me you’re a dick.”

“I’m not sure, Psycho Fan, maybe I could come over and lay down on your couch while you psychoanalyze me some more.”

“Okay!” Amelia says.

I shoot her a glare. “He’s kidding,” I say. “Although kidding implies he’s being funny. Which he’s not.”

“Humor was never really my forte,” he admits.

“So you can’t write anymore, you’re not funny, and you live alone in a cabin in the woods,” I say. “You sound like a real catch.”

“Do I?” he asks. “Are you trying to figure out if we’re compatible, then?” He steps closer until he’s too close. Way too close.

I can smell him again.

I can feel the space between his body and mine like it’s an electrically charged field where even the slightest movement could ignite a spark. The heat from his body seeps into me and fills my mind with bad, bad ideas. Why do I have to keep reminding myself this guy is a complete jerk? It’s not fair that a pretty face and a perfect body are enough to turn me into one of his drooling fans anytime I let my guard down.

“Trust me, Lindsey,” he says, making a fresh wave of warmth run through me when he uses my real name instead of calling me Psycho Fan. “We’re incompatible in every way. I’d use you up,” he lowers his voice so Amelia can’t hear, even though I can practically feel her leaning in to catch every word. “You’d forget everything except what it feels like to have me inside you. You’d be a slave for it, so desperate for my cock there’d be nothing you wouldn’t do. Then I’d let you go. I’d toss you aside like all the rest, ruined and used up.”

He backs up with a look on his face that catches me off guard. I expect a confident, cocky grin, but instead, I see only the shadow of confidence. He wears the half-smile I've come to expect, but it doesn't touch his eyes. I only see sadness there and a loneliness so deep it's like he's reaching out to me even as he's pushing me away.

“Nice to meet your daughter,” he says, smoothing his expression and walking off like nothing happened.

“Remember when you said you’d include me more?” asks Amelia. “Now would be a great time.”