“Sky. You have rich girlfriend posture now. Your spine has opinions. It’s genuinely alarming.”
“I do not have rich girlfriend posture.”
“You’re sitting like someone might grade your form.” She reaches over and tops off my glass without asking. “Drink. It’s excellent, budget-friendly therapy.”
We drink, eat, and laugh until the containers are empty and the tightness in my chest has loosened into something that almost feels like breathing normally.
Then Cassie goes quiet. “I saw him,” she says.
She meets my eyes. “Zane.”
“Why would I care?” My chest twists so violently it feels like something has torn itself loose.
“He asked about you.”
The air leaves my lungs. I look down at the wine in my glass, watching the surface tremble and realize it is my hand that is trembling.
“What did you say?” My eyes snap up.
“That you’re alive.” She holds my gaze. “That’s all he gets from me until you tell me otherwise.” She pauses. “He looks different.”
I grip the glass. “How different?”
She studies me the way she does when she’s deciding how much truth I can carry.
“He’s still Zane. Still got that whole broody storm-cloud-with-a-criminal-record situation going on. But something’s shifted. He doesn’t seem as angry at the world. Or maybe he still is and he’s just learned to keep it on a leash.”
I picture him. Older. Standing in Rainer’s garage, grease on his hands and that sexy smirk. Thinking about the changes seven years carved into him, in ways I’ll never fully know. I take a drink, taking too much at once.
“And?” I ask, hating myself for doing so.
“And what?”
“You know what.”
Her smile turns wicked.
“Oh, you want to know if he’s still hot?” She leans back, glass in hand, eyes bright with mischief. “Annoyingly hot. He was hot before, in that feral alley-cat-who-might-fuck-you-or-steal-your-wallet way. Now he’s even hotter. Prison gave him more muscles and trauma, which is rude because men should not be rewarded for terrible life choices.” Cassie points her glass at me. “Girl, you should climb that man before someone else brings a ladder.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m serious.”
“Shut up, Cass.”
She laughs. Then she sobers slightly.
“You still love him, don’t you, Sky?” she says. “I can see it. And I’m not saying you should forgive him.”
“Good.”
“I’m not saying he didn’t hurt you.”
“He did.”
“I know.” Cassie sets her glass down and leans forward, elbows on her knees, all the jokes folding back to reveal what’s underneath. “But, Sky, I think you should go see him.”
My heart stops. “No.”
