Page 90 of 10 Days to Ruin

And what’s worse? When the stars came out, so did the truth serum.Orion, Ursa Major, The Big Dipper—it was like my sister was at my side again for the briefest of moments.

There was no sarcasm when I told him how Jas and I used to sit out on the roof while Mama and Baba screamed at each other one story below. No bite. No snark. Just… sharing.

Central Park undid me further. That was more of the same. Or rather, more of the not-same: No agenda. No posturing. Just mustard on his thumb and a shockingly normal laugh. For one stupid, sunlit hour, we weren’t at each other’s throats.

We were just…us.

And that terrifies me more than any arranged marriage.

Mama’s advice didn’t help. “There are no wrong choices; only different ones,” she said, licking ice cream off her spoon. As if hearts aren’t just overripe peaches, bruised or bursting at the slightest pressure. Hers led her straight into Leander’s bear trap. Mine keeps flip-flopping between wanting to shove Sasha off a cliff and wanting to shove him against the nearest flat surface.

I’m a reporter. I hunt truths for a living. So why can’t I pin down the truth of him? Is he the monster he swears he is, or the man he seems to be when he thinks I’m not looking? Does he pluck lilies or break fingers?

Do I loathe him?

Or do I—God, I can’t believe the words are even in my head right now—do I see a way I could one daylovehim?

But then I remember what happened to the women of my family. If I let Sasha in, will I end up a cautionary footnote, too? Will I be Jasmine—a ghost in the wind, a chalk outline where my sister should be? Will I become my mother, painting on a smile as the walls close in?

I’m not sure which scares me more: a lifetime bound to him… or a lifetime without this dizzying, dangerous high.

Today’s date invite was as cryptic as the rest of them have been. A courier showed up atThe Gazetteoffices with—get this—not a flower, but a fire-charred stick with a single leaf at the end. He handed me a note to go with it.

A memento from the mountain. Meet me at the New York Public Library. 7 PM.

Leave the glitter at home.

—Sasha

I knew, even as I left work early to go home and change, that it was a bad idea. I should’ve sent the courier back with a message that said,Shove this stick up your you-know-what.

But I didn’t.

Now, I’m here and Patience and Fortitude are judging me. The stone lions have seen a century of New Yorker’s mistakes and regrets, but they seem to sigh as I climb the library steps.

Really?their frozen snarls say.You’re gonna make us watch you pretend to do this whole charadeagain?

Speaking of judgmental faces, Sasha is leaning against a pillar, all black coat and sharp cheekbones. He’s scrolling through his phone, but when he spots me, he slips the device into his pocket. His eyes do that thing—the slow drag from my scuffed Docs up to the messy topknot I spent twenty minutes making look careless.

“You’re—”

“Late. Yes, I know. We do this song and dance every time. I am not a punctual person. You will have to get used to it.”

A sudden breeze screams down the sidewalk. Acting on pure instinct—or maybe it’s muscle memory from our sleepover on Mt. Regret—I step into Sasha to hide from the chill.

As if his body remembers too, he encircles me with both arms and plasters my cheek to his chest.

The wind passes.

One awkward millisecond later, we spring apart.

“It’s December in New York,” he says with a scowl as he surveys my outfit. “You didn’t think a coat was appropriate?”

“That’s rich coming from Mr. Funeral-Chic himself. Do you own anything that doesn’t scream ‘moody vampire’?”

The corner of his mouth ticks up. But instead of more of his trademark withering condescension, he reaches out to pluck a stray eyelash from my cheek, holding it on his fingertip. “Make a wish.”

I think for a second, then I blow it away. “Too late,” I lie. “My wish lists are tapped out.”

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