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I lift my chin, gravitating toward him. Something about this being the last time I’ll see him as a single man, the last time it’ll be okay to touch him and want him and long for him, makes it feel okay to cross the line.
At least once.
But Adam doesn’t touch me. He stops his hand an inch away from my cheek and then backs off.
“Go back inside,” he says firmly. “Close the door. Lock it. And don’t open it. Not even if I come back. Not even if I bang on your door and beg to see you. Don’t open up for me.”
My bottom lip trembles.
With a determined look, Adam whirls around and leaves me standing alone in the hallway.
I reach for him, but my fingers rake through air and then fall limply at my side.
It’s over.
Adam and I are done.
* * *
I wakeup to eyelids caked together and a pounding headache.
Turns out, ‘crying yourself to sleep’ is a lot more painful than it sounds. Especially when you wake up the next morning to blaring sunlight and burning eyeballs.
I move through my morning routine like a ghost.
Brush my teeth.
Shower.
Comb my hair.
“It doesn’t look right,” I growl into the mirror after emptying two tubs of product and gel. My arms are aching and I hate everything my curls are doing.
In a fit of frustration, I grab the scissors.
Maybe I should cut it all off. Who cares if I have hair anyway? Wouldn’t it be easier if I didn’t have to worry about these stubborn, rebellious curls growing out of my head?
My phone rings at that moment.
It’s Dejonae.
I replace the scissors with my cell and lean my hip against the sink.
“Hi, Nova,” Dejonae says. “Sunny’s hosting a cooking class at the farmhouse tonight. We’re making tortillas—Mayan style. You interested?”
“No.”
“Oh.” Dejonae pauses. “But… I thought you loved tortillas?”
I’m not in the mood to socialize, no matter how much I adore Sunny and Mama Moira’s traditional dish. “I’m sorry, Dejonae, I’m a little busy right now. If that’s all, then I’ll hang up first.”
“Wait!”
“What?” I tilt my head.
“Um… ah…”
“Dejonae, I really don’t have time—”
