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But I don’t get to pull out my wallet or that little diamond ring. Rosalie claims my lips with hers, shutting me up with a kiss. Her fingers grapple at my shirt, fisting the fabric and tugging me closer to her in the cab of my car.

She’s sweet, like the coconut cake we had at Fran’s, and soft, like the down pillows that adorn her bed. She is my favorite human on the planet, and I’d do just about anything to make her mine.

“Is that a yes?” I whisper when she separates our lips and pulls in a breath.

“Zev, you actually have a ring?”

I let go of her just to prove that I do. I pull my wallet from my pocket and pull out the white gold band and small oval diamond.

A delirious laugh bubbles from her throat. She slaps a hand over her mouth and stares down at the ring pinched between my fingers. Her head bobbles in a shake. “I thought you were teasing.”

“Why would I ever tease when I’ve never wanted anything more? Now—answer the question.”

Her eyes flick to mine, and the corner of her lips tug up in a grin. “Yes.”

Yes.

I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath until Rosalie uttered that one-syllable word.

But before I can put the ring on her finger, before I can kiss her in celebration, bright blinding headlights burn our eyes and block Rosalie and everything else from my sight. The blaring horn of a semi sounds.

And then everything before me goes black.

Four

Present Day

The café is busier on Fridays, which is why my normal day is Monday. But I’m back. My Friday plans—as in go to lunch with Fran—fell through. So, I’m free. I just finished my latest book, Grammy has a guest coming by the house today, my parents are seven hours away, I have no other friends, and nothing else to do. I can’t have nothing to do.

I can’t.

The nerves in my body threaten to revolt with just the thought.

So, I’ve brought Carlos another book for his granddaughter, hoping he works on Fridays. I should have asked him about his schedule. If he isn’t working, then I’ll be stuck reading Return to Saigon again. I’ve read it multiple times, and while I love this middle grade novel about a girl from Vietnam, it’s not going to be good enough to distract me today.

I ask the hostess for a patio seat, but the patio is full.

Nerves race in my chest, throat, and stomach. Each asking, Why am I here?

I need air. I can’t be cooped up in this restaurant with no book, no patio, and no Carlos.

But then I see my waiter friend. I shoot my hand in the air and wave to him. He’s holding a drink in each hand, but he nods and smiles at me before hurrying out to the patio.

“I think I’ll wait until an outdoor seat opens up,” I tell the girl. It looks as if Carlos is working out there like normal. I’ll be able to get Partida her book after all.

She jots down my name and goes back to her busy Friday, seating a couple that came in after me inside the café.

I stand at the front, clutching my book to my chest, nothing to do but hyper focus on my anxiety and wandering mind.

I hate a wandering mind. If Fran were here, I’d be able to look at her and talk. I’d be able to pretend that my life isn’t a mess at the moment. Except the happy smiling lines around Fran’s eyes have deepened slightly. They aren’t wrinkles, but they are new. And they remind me that I can’t trust my own mind.

My lines are different, too.

I can’t even look in the mirror without being reminded that my life is a lit match in a firework stand.

I pace once, then sit on the bench at the front of the café to wait for my patio seat.

“Hello.” An older man nods when he passes me, but his eyes are too sociable—as in someone I should know but don’t.