Page 52 of Ex Marks the Spot

“Wow, dramatic much?” Ella mutters.

Or at least I think that’s what she says. It’s hard to hear over the echo of Hartley’s announcement reverberating through my head. Abandoning my sister, I maneuver around the crowd to read the sign introducing her capstone.

“Central Tennessee State College presents,The Evolution of a Lie,by Hartley Billings.”

The first canvas is titledPancakes a la Gordon.

Then,Falling Stars.

Then,Rubber Ducks.

Wait . . . is this . . . ? No fucking way.

Knots of dread settle heavy in my stomach as I register what I’m looking at—Hartley’s capstone is a journal of our relationship, one piece of art for each month we were together. I skip the rest of the canvases and walk straight to the blank one at the end.

A Coward’s Escape.

“Whoa,” Gianna says.

“Yep.”

“Have you told her any of this?”

I shake my head. “I wanted her to look at Italy as a place to escape to after her heart was broken, not the reason I broke her heart in the first place. The less she knew the truth and the more she believed I cheated, the better.”

“But why not tell her now?”

I can’t fault Gianna’s hopeful smile. Once upon a time, I believed in pipe dreams too.

“It wouldn’t do any good. That was six years ago, and I guarantee she’ll still think I’m lying.”

“That’s—”

“And because talking about it upsets her and I’ve done enough of that already.”

“Yes, but?—”

“And because the race ends in twelve days, so...” I let my resigned shrug say the rest: Hartley will go back to her life, I’ll go back to mine, and we’ll never see each other again.

I knew this was coming. Hell, at the starting line, I was already planning my own personal party to celebrate not having to be around her anymore. But that was before I remembered how well she fits against me. Before she blasted me with light I haven’t felt since the day I walked away from her.

Fuck.

How am I supposed to justgo homeafter this?

“I got it,” Big Mike announces, showcasing his McDonald’s bag like it’s a prized possession. When no one acknowledges his presence, he continues with, “It wasn’t that hard to get there, either. You just gotta go outside and take the shuttle to terminal one.”

Boyd shoots a sardonic look at the Wise Guys. “I still can’t believe that we’ve had access to authentic cuisine for nine days and you go out of your way to get the most Americanized food you can find.”

“This is thesamurai mac burger,” Mike says, pulling a wrapped object from the bag. “You can’t get this in America, just like you can’t get a McFiesta or a Hongos Deluxe or a Serious Angus.”

“That’s not what—never mind.” Boyd waves a dismissive hand. “Enjoy your whatever the hell that is.”

“Oh, I will. This thing smells amazing.”

“It smells like a cheeseburger,” Hartley mutters to me. Although we haven’t agreed on much during the race, we’re united in our dislike for Big Mike. We all are, for that matter.

“Do you guys mind if we cop a squat in the corner?” Mike asks.

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