Page 203 of Irreversible

I see Isaac.

And I can’t tell if that’s a spark of hope or a death sentence.

I set my jaw, steeling myself. “What you’re feeling is regret over something left undone. But you don’t owe it to yourself to fix what no longer exists; you owe it to yourself to fix what you have right now.”

He searches my face, conflict shimmering in his eyes. A subtle desperation. “You don’t miss modeling?”

“Missing and wanting are two separate things. I can miss and mourn my past while still craving a different future. When you try to weave those two things together, all you’re left with are knots.” I soften, reaching for his hand again, but I keep my fingers hovering just above his. “I just want to be free, Jasper,” I tell him, my voice wavering. “Don’t you?”

For a heartbeat, I see a flicker of something in his expression—guilt, sorrow, regret, doubt.

Nobody predicted this. Our situation unfolded like a slow-motion car crash, inevitable and impossible to stop, leaving nothing but shattered glass and broken hearts.

The only thing left to do is pick up the pieces.

Jasper studies those pieces in a new light, until a different look steals his eyes. Acceptance, maybe. He blows out a breath, fiddling with his tie again. “Take me out of the equation, then. This isn’t about me or Allison. Just consider the modeling proposition—I can get your foot in the door, but I’ll assignyou a new agent. Plenty would be vying for the opportunity to represent you,” he explains, the words falling out quickly. “There’s a runway show next week. It’s big. A last-minute slot opened, and Abner requested you. I really hope you’ll consider it.”

His eyes glimmer with a mix of hope and urgency, and I know this is his way of trying to make amends. He thinks that if he helps me find my way back to modeling, it’ll somehow make up for what happened between us.

My compliance will be the first step to chipping away his guilt.

And without the ghost of our doomed relationship hovering over me, I simmer in the invitation. I see it for what it is, for what it might become.

Stirring a sushi roll around the dish, I glance up. “When is it?”

His eyes flare slightly, tinged with relief. “Friday. I can help you prepare.”

I nod.

I should consider the positives: the stability, the familiarity, the steady paychecks. I can rebrand myself. I may no longer be Everly Cross, but I’m not gone. I’m still here, still capable of building something new from rubble and old bones.

Exhaling a breath, I sip my wine and meet his eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

47

Ihave both socked feet propped up on the ugly orange ottoman as I stare at my cell phone, a cherry lollipop tucked in my cheek. The television flickers in the background, volume on low, featuring some trending Netflix movie that lost my interest five minutes in.

Outside, through half-cracked blinds, a car horn blares, and I bite down on the candy.

Mrrooww.

Mr. Binkers coils into a loose ball on my lap, his fur a soothing balm as I graze my fingers between his ears. November rain lashes against the windowpane, streaking down in relentless, slanting sheets. It’s the start of the rainy season in San Francisco.

Sighing, I peer down at my phone screen again, my eyes fixed on a single name.

Isaac added his number to my phone at the hotel two nights ago, urging me to call or text him if I ever felt unsafe. He didn’t say anything about texting him out of guilt, but the weight of my conscience grew too heavy, and I messaged him shortly after Jasper dropped me off at my apartment, telling him about the business dinner. He left me on Read.

Now his name shines back at me again, a temptation I can’t quite shake. He probably never considered I’d be staring at his name just because I’m tangled up in thoughts of him—brash, unpredictable, and still somehow the one who makes me feel safer than I’ve felt in ages.

I roll the lollipop to the other side of my mouth, my thumb hovering over his contact before pressing the phone to my chest, hoping to dull the ache that follows his name, even when I’m not looking. “What do you think, Mr. Binkers? Am I catching feelings?”

That’s an understatement.

I’ve been feeling something for him ever since he called me “Bee” and bared his soul through a wall of white, his voice breaking through my hollow chasm like a lifeline.

The cat mews contentedly on my lap, his soft fur warming my hand. I stifle a smile. “Yeah,” I murmur, brushing his ears. “This probably won’t end well.”

Leaning back, I open a new message and flick my thumbs over the keypad.

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