Page 59

Adam really is a great guy, and he didn't make me feel bad about how the evening ended. But once I'm home, the tears start coming anyway.

Why can't I go on a date with a nice, handsome man and actually be into him? Why do I have to pine for someone who's only looking for a quick hookup?

I've promised myself I'm never going to be Wyatt's puck bunny, no matter how outrageously he flirts with me.

But apparently, I can't stop wanting him, either.

I feel like such a loser.

I just want to be normal.

I step out of the dress and let it fall to the floor, out of the heels, out of the version of tonight I rehearsed in the mirror three hours ago.

The T-shirt goes on first. Then, because apparently self-sabotage is a full-body sport, I dig through the closet until my fingers find the hoodie shoved behind a row of blouses I never wear. I never gave it back.

I pull it on over the T-shirt, sleeves swallowing my hands to the knuckle, and sit on the edge of the bed.

I’m twenty-three years old. A perfectly nice man bought me dinner tonight, asked about my work like the answer mattered, and refilled my wine glass without being asked.

And I spent the whole time doing math on somebody else's jokes.

What is wrong with me?

A knock lands against the door.

I know who's on the other side before I open the door, and it's the person I want to see most... and least.

Wyatt stands in the hallway holding a paper bag gone translucent with grease at the bottom, hair pushed every direction like he drove here with the windows down and didn't care.

He doesn't give me his usual smile, the one that's almost always there before he even opens his mouth.

“I hope it's okay that I came,” he says, sounding a little unsure. “I wanted to see you.”

Hope rises in my chest again.

But wait… How does Wyatt know I'm back home?

Of course.

“Did Riley text you?”

He hesitates. “Yeah. She did. But I wanted to come check on you.” He lifts the bag in his hand. “I don't know if you're still hungry, but I brought grilled cheese and tomato soup. My mom always said soup fixes things, and who am I to argue with her?”

I step back from the door without a word and let him in.

He hands me the bag and toes off his shoes without being asked. I lead him into the living room, where we settle on the floor with our backs against the couch and the paper bag open between us, its edges already soft and shiny with grease.

He unwraps a grilled cheese and hands it to me. I take it but don't eat.

Instead of taking a bite of his own sandwich, he sets it in his lap. “Quinn.”

Something about the way he says my name makes me look up.

His jaw tightens. “What happened?” His eyes search my face. “Did he do something to you?”

The last question comes out low and deadly calm.

I frown. “What?”