Page 76 of Come Break My Heart Again

I pretend not to notice.

Avery does. “Ah. So, that’s what the weird vibe was at breakfast.”

“There was no weird vibe,” I say, then finish off my drink.

Silence follows.

I glance at Keira, who’s playing with the edge of her napkin.

“I mean,weknew there was a weird vibe. I didn’t think others would … notice,” Juliet says.

“It was a long time ago,” I tell Avery. “High school.”

“Aww.” She presses a hand to her chest. “Was he your first love?”

“Yeah.”

Juliet’s eyebrows are halfway to her hairline. I told Keira about freshman year, but Juliet thought Ryder was just a rebound from Archer. A rebellion from the confines of my life. A fun fling with the town bad boy.

And they both think I accepted the seven years of separation. They don’t know about the letters I sent. The secret trips to the state prison. The humiliating way I begged him not to break up with me.

Because it was raw and painful and embarrassing, and talking about it would’ve changed nothing. It still won’t.

“Do you still have feelings for him?” Avery’s face is alight with interest as she leans forward.

Love stories are fun to discuss—when you don’t have to live with the heartbreak.

“Of course not.” I sip some melting ice, savoring the sour saltiness stuck to the rim.

The flavor washes away the bitterness of lying—again. But I’m sure bits of this conversation will make it to Ophelia and Tucker and possibly even to Ryder himself. Honesty isn’t an option.

Seven years of practice, and my voice is exactly right. Detached and slightly incredulous.

I’m an excellent liar. It’s a survival skill I’ve perfected. The only person who’s ever found the fiction is talking to a pretty redhead who might make him happy.

I should want that for Ryder—happiness.

I stand. “I’m grabbing another drink. Anyone want anything?”

Avery and Keira shake their heads, both being responsible. There’s no way I’ll be able to drive my convertible home.

“I’ll take another G and T,” Juliet says.

“Coming right up.”

I head for the bar, hoping they’ll take my quick exit to mean that I’m bored by the conversation about Ryder, not bothered by it.

The bartender is busy at the other end of the bar when I reach an empty stool. I take the seat, my feet still bothering me, and rest my elbows on the rounded edge of the worn wood. A gritty rub against my elbow distracts me from trying to catch the bartender’s eye. My stomach flips when I realize it’s spilled salt.

I brush the crystals off my skin, then pull out my phone. I have a new message from Prescott.

PRESCOTT: Hey. I made a dinner reservation for Monday night. 7 PM at Canteen. Does that work for you?

PRESCOTT: Hope your trip is going well.

My stomach roils. He’s being forgiving and sweet and the bigger person, and I hate it. I want him to yell. I want a storm, not for him to smooth the waves. I want it to behard, just for a little bit. Even in my head, it sounds crazy.

ELLE: Sounds great. See you then!

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