Cade keeps up the nonstop chatter the entire drive back to my place. He tried his best to play it cool when we were in the suite, but the moment we got in his car, he was practically bursting with the need to talk about his experience.

“I can’t believe you know those guys,” he says again and again with a shake of his head. “That you actually went to school with them.”

I don’t have the heart to tell him what dicks Cannon and Jordan used to be. Maybe they still are, I don’t know. But during our senior year, both those boys treated me fairly, like we were actual friends. Cannon because he respected me, and Jordan because, well…

He was in love with me.

And I was deeply in love with him. Seeing Jordan tonight, talking to him, those fleeting moments when his gaze was on me, or when he actually touched me, all those feelings came rushing back, flooding me with emotion. To the point where all I can do is sit here and think about him and wonder…

Am I still in love with him?

It’s not possible. Too much time has passed, too many things have happened. We could never get back what we had. I destroyed that chance by breaking up with him.

At least he was civil toward me.

I’m so wrapped up in my own thoughts I don’t realize we’re back at my apartment complex until Cade pulls into the tiny parking lot. He cuts the engine and watches me, an expectant look on his face. Like he might want to kiss me or something.

That is the absolute last thing I want to do, what with Jordan Tuttle still lingering in my head.

“Thanks again for taking me tonight.” Cade’s smile is bright in the otherwise mostly dark interior of his car. “I had a lot of fun.”

“Thanks for going with me.”

“We should do it again sometime. Go to another game.”

“Um, sure.” I don’t want to go on another date with Cade. He’s a great guy, I just don’t feel…anything for him beyond friendship.

“Or dinner again. I found a great Thai place I think you might like.” His smile grows, and dread fills me. I don’t want to dump him tonight. I just made him go to that game with me so I could have someone to lean on. I used him for support, so that probably makes me an awful person.

At this moment, I definitely feel like an awful person.

“Sounds good,” I tell him weakly. “Good night.” I reach for the door handle, ready to bust out like I’m making a prison escape, but he stops me, his hand going to my shoulder, his grip firm. I turn to look at him, not saying a word, and he leans in. His eyes start to close…

I avert my head at the last minute, his lips grazing my cheek.

He pulls away, disappointment flashing in his gaze, and I refuse to feel bad, yet I do. I’d rather be friends with him. It’s all stupid Jordan’s fault for coming back into my life at the worst time.

“See you tomorrow,” I say, pushing the passenger side door open and making my escape. I bend down to wave at him through the window once I shut the door and he waves at me in return, starting the engine and backing out of the space so quick, he’s gone in what feels like less than a minute.

I hustle back to my apartment, hating how late it is, and how quiet. I can hear the distant thundering of cars on the freeway, a dog barking at one of the houses across the street, and I let go a big sigh of relief when I’m actually in my tiny place with the door firmly locked. It’s not that my neighborhood is unsafe, it’s just…being alone late at night is a little scary.

My evening routine is starting later than usual, but I keep to it. I take a shower and wash my hair. Slip into an old T-shirt—from high school, what a surprise—and then blow-dry my hair. Climb into bed with my phone, shocked to see I have a text message from that number I haven’t put a name to yet.

It’s Jordan’s number. And he’s left me numerous messages.

It was good seeing you tonight.

Sorry we didn’t talk much.

We should get together again sometime.

If your boyfriend doesn’t mind.

His texts make me smile. He’s ridiculous in the absolute best way.

I’m glad we got to see each other too.

We should definitely get together.

And he’s not my boyfriend.

My phone starts ringing, and it’s Jordan wanting to FaceTime. I answer without thinking, immediately regretting it because I’m wearing that old high school T-shirt which proves I’m lame or thinking of him or whatever conclusion Jordan will draw. Plus, I don’t have a lick of makeup on. Don’t have a bra on either, meaning I’m not at my best.

At least my hair looks good.

“Why are you FaceTiming me?” I ask the screen, scowling at his handsome face. Ugh, he’s too good looking, even late at night when he should look his absolute worst. I sort of hate him in this moment.

“Felt bad that we didn’t get a chance to talk much.” He hesitates. I can see doubt flicker in his gaze for the briefest moment. “Your boyfriend seems nice.”

“I already told you he’s not my boyfriend.”

“He was very possessive of you, Mandy.” Jordan’s voice goes a little deeper and I swear I can feel it vibrating in the pit of my stomach.

I know exactly what moment Jordan’s referring to. “That’s because you offered to take me home and we went to the game together. I think you intimidated him.”

“I was just trying to be nice.”

Please. That innocent look on his face doesn’t fool me. “You’re my ex-boyfriend. You intimidated him,” I say again.

“Whatever. I think he was star struck. He probably wished I was taking him home.” There’s that ghost of a smile again. Seeing it makes me smile a little too.

“He probably did,” I agree.

“So he’s definitely not your boyfriend?” Jordan raises his brows.

I want to shout at him, why do you care? But I don’t. I guess he’s just curious. This is what happens when you reconnect with an ex, right? We’re curious about each other’s lives, including romantic entanglements we’re not involved in…

“Cade isn’t my boyfriend,” I say firmly. “We went out on one date.” Well, two.

“Two if you count tonight,” Jordan says like he’s living in my head, which he sort of is.

“Right. Two,” I say weakly, leaning back against my pillows. He has to know I’m in bed. Where’s he at? He appears freshly showered, his dark hair damp, and he’s wearing a gray T-shirt that stretches tight across his shoulders and chest.

Too bad he’s not shirtless. I remember Jordan always had great abs. I bet they’re even better now.

“You in bed?” he asks, again residing in my head.

How does he make those three words sound so freaking suggestive? “Um, yes.”

He takes a deep breath. Runs a hand through his thick, dark hair, messing it up perfectly. Hardens his jaw so he now looks extra sexy. Stares off into the distance for a moment like some sort of model in a photoshoot. “I won’t make the first move,” he finally says.

I’m confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You. Me. I refuse to make the first move. I’ve done that time and again over the years, and you still ended up destroying me.” He takes another deep breath, like that was a lot for him to say. I suppose it was.

But I want him to say more.

He doesn’t. He just watches me in that infuriatingly Jordan Tuttle way of his. Where I’m supposed to be able to figure out his moods and what he wants from me. I thought I was the only one who really knew him, yet I’ve wondered over the years if I only knew the person he presented to me. Did I ever really understand him, ever?

I’m not sure.

“Do you—want me to make the first move?” I am an idiot for asking. What if this is his one shot to turn me down? Humiliate me on the spot? He could’ve been wanting revenge for years, and now he’s finally going to get it.

My heart is whoosh-whooshing in my ears as I wait for him to say something. Anything. It’s almost painful, how long he takes to speak. My breath keeps getting caught in my throat and I wonder if I’ll pass out from lack of oxygen.

“What do you think?” He sounds stubborn as hell. Defiant, even.

“I think that technically you made the first move by inviting me to your game tonight,” I say tentatively.

“And I think you technically made the very first move by following me on Instagram and sending me a message.” He sounds pleased that I did that.

“You’re the one who said on national television that you missed the one who got away,” I point out.

“Are you assuming you’re the one who got away?” He raises a brow.

My heart stops. I’m gaping at him, closing and opening my mouth like a dying fish.

He actually laughs for all of two seconds before he turns into serious mode once again. “Of course I was talking about you.”

My heart resumes beating, only now it’s doing double time. “You’re mean.”

“So are you.”

“How am I mean?” I rest my hand on my chest, then drop it. I don’t want him staring at my braless breasts.

“You’re the one who broke up with me all those years ago.”

I say nothing. I don’t know how to argue that point.

“Did you actually want to break up with me?” He peers in close, his face completely filling my phone screen. “Or did someone make you?”

“Who would make me?” I ask incredulously. No one forced my hand. I made that stupid decision all on my own.

“I don’t know. Your parents. A new boyfriend.” He leans back and I see those broad shoulders shrug.

“I didn’t have someone waiting in the wings when we broke up, Jordan,” I say irritably. “There was no backup plan.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“I thought it was the right thing to do!” I cannot believe we’re having this discussion over FaceTime. So embarrassing. “You were so busy, off living your life in college, and there were so many opportunities being thrown at you. I didn’t want to hold you back.”

He’s looking at me like I’m crazy. Or like there are horns sprouting from my head. “Are you serious? Did you really believe you held me back?”

“I don’t know! I was so confused and worried and sad all the time. I couldn’t take it anymore.” I throw my hands up in the air, feeling stupid. Hating that we’re confronting each other with all this old bullshit. Can’t we just pretend it never happened?

Not that forgetting our past is the right thing to do. I guess we need to confront our mistakes if we want to—oh my God—make another attempt?

Is that what we’re doing?

No way do I want to get my hopes up. I’m not even sure if that’s what I really want. Do I want another chance with Jordan? Sometimes, I think yes.

And other times, I think…

No. Absolutely not.

“Why were you sad?” he asks, his voice gentle.

“I missed you,” I confess, heaving a big sigh. “I thought I was losing you. I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“You never lost me,” he says firmly. “I lost you. You’re the one who didn’t want me anymore.”

My gaze meets his as I stare at my phone screen. Everything comes back at me, all those horrible old feelings, the memories, the tears. So many tears. Having a new daily reminder of how much you epically fucked up your life really sucks.

Jordan is that new daily reminder. I don’t know if I like it.

“Don’t you have anything to say?” he asks when I still haven’t replied.

Fine. He wants to hear what I have to say? Here I go.

“That’s the biggest problem you have with me, right? I’m the dumbass who broke up with you. I’m the idiot who cut you off, who hurt you before you could hurt me. It’s all my fault.”

“Amanda, no. That’s not what I’m saying—”

I end the call before he can finish his sentence.

And pull the covers over my head, too many painful thoughts running through my brain.

It hurts too much. Talking to Jordan. Remembering what I gave up, how I believed that’s what he wanted as well. It hurts too, thinking that he could want me back. Knowing that I broke his heart—that’s all on me.

Can we really pick up where we left off? Can we—he—forget I broke up with him?

Or our there too many years and too much distance between us?