Page 114 of Nothing Like the Movies

“House on Fire”—smart-ass mental playlist shit—screamed through my head as I threw my backpack over one shoulder, climbed over to the gutter, and turned sideways so I was partially hidden by the corner of the building.

It was no use, though, because they were staring at me—she was filming, for the love of God—as I navigated that gutter like I actuallywasa possum. The building had a security light that was serving as my spotlight, and I wasn’t sure how this could get much worse.

But then my foot slipped.

My foot slipped, and I started falling.

Thankfully I landed in an overgrown bush, so I didn’t die, butmy ankle killed as I scrambled to my feet and started sprinting down the street, running away like the criminal I was. I didn’t stop for at least three blocks, hop-running on a wrecked ankle, until I hit a busy intersection where I felt safe enough to call Mick to come pick me up.

By the time he got there, my ankle had swelled to an ugly size.

“Thanks for coming, man,” I said, opening his passenger door.

“What the hell happened to you?” he asked, his eyes huge as he looked at my ankle, the scratches all over my legs from the bush’s thorns, my wet clothes, and my soaked hair.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” I said, climbing inside and shutting the door.

“DidLizdo this to you?” he asked, turning down the radio.

“No,” I said. “But I have a feeling she would’ve enjoyed the spectacle.”

I was in a crap mood for the rest of the night after my plan imploded, but I realized as the guys mocked me incessantly for being a lovesick pussy that it was nice to fail with friends. After a couple of years of being alone while also being proverbially pressure-washed by life, it sucked a little less when you had friends to mock you for it.

The next morning, after I finished lifting (and getting chewed out by multiple coaches for screwing around and spraining my ankle) and was headed for the exit, I saw her.

I’d never be sure if she was my type—have I always had a fondness for redheads with green eyes?—or if she’dcreatedmy type.

She was the prototype.

There was only her.

She was walking toward the door, her eyes on her phone, and she almost ran into me.

And I totally would’ve let her.Run me down, Lib.

She sort of glanced up, muttering, “Excuse me,” under her breath, but then her eyes snapped into focus on me.

“In a hurry, Lib?” I said, my hand lightly brushing over her arm to steady her so she didn’t stumble.

“Yeah,” she said, looking like she had a lot of thoughts running around in her head. She had a crinkle between her eyebrows, and I wondered what she knew about my epic fail last night.

Did she know anything at all, or had she not even opened her blinds since I’d taken a dive off the building? I didn’t know, but I didn’twantto.

“See you later, then,” I said, walking toward the door.

The entire exchange had lasted three seconds—four, max—so why did I feel so alive, like the world was spinning faster now that we’d had contact?

“Wes. Wait.”

Any other time, the sound of Liz calling me back would’ve made me ecstatic.

But I just knew this couldn’t be good.

“Yeah?” I said casually, as if last night hadn’t happened.

How does she have such perfect lips?

She looked down at my wrapped ankle. “What happened to your ankle?”

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