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I turn toward the man I’ve just collided with, taking in his round face, thinning hair, and considerably larger waistline.

Dean Shepherd.

Or at least what appears to be a balder, heavier version of the asshole I remember from high school.

His eyes practically bug out of his head when he realizes who I am.

“Max. Holy shit.” He straightens, suddenly looking very uncomfortable. “Actually, uh, it’s a good thing I ran into you.”

“Whatever it is, I’m not interested,” I tell him, already moving past him.

“No, wait. Listen.” He hurries after me, nearly spilling his drink. “Look, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about some stuff. You know, from back in high school.”

I stop walking and turn toward him.

“What stuff?”

“You know.” He shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other. “The shit I did to you. The way I treated you back then. I just wanted to say I’m really fucking sorry about all of it.”

Well, that’s unexpected.

“I was a jerk, okay? A complete asshole. Thing is, most of the time, I was just trying to impress Peyton and the others. It wasn’t anything personal, Max. I swear.”

“Well, it sure as hell felt personal.”

“I know. I know it did.” He nods vigorously, his eyes darting around the room before returning to me. “And I’m sorry. Really. I’ve grown up a lot since then. I’m not that guy anymore.”

“Clearly,” I reply, giving him a pointed once-over.

He glances down at his stomach and lets out a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, well. Packed on a few pounds. Happens after your second divorce, apparently.”

“Sounds rough.”

“You have no idea.” He laughs again, although there’s something painfully forced about it. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I regret what happened back then. All of it. I was young and stupid, and I shouldn’t have treated you the way I did.”

I study him for a moment, wondering if I should trust anything he says.

Dean has never apologized to me for anything in his life. Not for the insults, not for the threats, and certainly not for the way he used to make my already miserable existence even worse.

And now, out of nowhere, he’s practically falling over himself to make amends. Why?

Then it hits me.

Oh, this is fucking priceless.

Dean is not apologizing because he’s suddenly developed a conscience. He’s apologizing because he thinks I’m the one killing off my bullies, and he’s worried he might be next.

Huh. I guess there are some perks to everyone believing I’m a serial killer after all.

“Tell you what, Dean.” I give him my sweetest smile. “Why don’t you make yourself scarce? I’m here to enjoy my evening, and looking at you is doing the exact opposite.”

His face loses what little color it had left.

“Right. Yeah. Of course.” He quickly lifts his glass and drains whatever remains inside. “Consider me gone.”

True to his word, he practically runs toward the gym doors.