Page 74 of Set on You

I scour her Instagram, searching for a tiny grain of evidence that can help me put the pieces together. However, Diana has only posted two photos since her return, neither of which give me any clue at all.

None of this makes sense. I trust Scott with everything I have. I’ve put myself out there. I’ve shown and told him how much I want him. I’ve slept with him two months earlier than intended. And now this?

As much as I don’t want to believe he’s hiding the fact that they’re back in touch, this text and all his weird behavior tells me otherwise. My mind races with the possibilities. Are they getting back together now that she’s back in town? Or are they just talking casually? It doesn’t make much sense, given that Scott claims they’re no longer friends. What could have possibly happened upon her return that would launch him into such an awful mood yesterday?

It feels like the Neil situation all over again. Weeks before we broke up, I began to suspect Neil had resumed talking to Cammie after they each posted photos from the same coffee shop. I only know this because I went full-blown CSI on the photos. Have I really been hoodwinked a second time?

After ten minutes of stewing, unsure how to play it with Scott now that this text cannot be unseen, I finally garner the energy to throw on a baggy sweater and leggings and stumble into the bathroom. Luckily, my face isn’t smudged full of mascara and blotchyfoundation as it would have been in my college days. I’m barefaced. My lips are red and swollen, and I have an obvious, violet hickey on the right side of my neck.

By the time I round the corner into the kitchen, Scott is standing in front of the stove in his dried clothes from yesterday, as if he’s meant to be here. As if this is a usual morning. I’m not surprised he’s one of those people who wake up looking flawless, with only slightly tousled hair as evidence of his status as a mere mortal. I bite my lip, recalling how soft it felt in between my fingers last night.

Tara is being Tara, still in her scrubs from the night shift, casually spectating from the kitchen table as Scott cooks eggs in the large skillet.

I brace myself for the awkward morning-after interaction. Instead, Scott actually lights up when he sees me. “She’s alive.” He flashes me an easy smile, as if we didn’t just spend hours connected together in more ways than one.

I think about the R-rated sounds he made last night. Will I ever forget them? Will they replay in my mind like my favorite soundtrack (of all time) every single time I see him?

“Hi,” I croak. Against my better judgment, I unearth the ill-advised jazz-hands wave.

“Scott made you breakfast. Scrambled eggs with no milk.” Tara gives me a supremely satisfied smile. From the wild look in her eyes, she’s definitely fighting the urge to shoutI told you soat the top of her lungs. I have no idea what time she returned from work last night, but I know that the walls in my apartment are anything but thick.

Mortified, my gaze flickers back to the pan. “Really? You hate scrambled eggs.”

He shrugs. “I know, but you like them.” My heart practically combusts and I’m tempted to forget all about that text.

A heavy silence fills the kitchen as he plates the eggs. This should be perfect. He hasn’t peaced out into the dark of night the moment he crawled off me. He’s stuck around to cook me breakfast. I should be smiling like a loon right now, but all I can think about is Diana’s text.

Tara clears her throat. “I’m, uh, going to my room,” she announces, shuffling off to give us some space. I can’t decide whether I’m grateful or horrified.

Scott holds out a plate and fork in his extended hand. I stare at his hands for a moment, and then his lips, recalling their exceptional talent. In fact, my body owes them public recognition plaques for their service, innovation, leadership, and stellar initiative.

Dazed, I take the plate and pierce a clump of eggs with my fork, standing beside him. Just like last night, his body radiates heat, and I’m drawn to it like a fly to shit.

He leans back against the counter. “You okay?”

I blink up at him in rapid succession, willing away the too-recent memory of our bodies tangled together, satisfying each other’s needs willingly, without judgment or restraint. I need to call him out. Right now. But I chicken out.

My expression hardens the longer he looks at me, because I know why he hung up on me the other night. I know why he was in an awful mood yesterday, glued to his phone. I need to ask him about it, but I decide to broach one elephant at a time.

I tilt my head knowingly, dry-swallowing the lump in my throat. “We had sex. Two months early.”

His face doesn’t change. In fact, it stays flat. “Wait—what?”

I go still for a moment before the corners of his lips turn up into a devious smile. I swat him on the arm. “You’re such a dick.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “Sorry, that was a bad joke.” He pauses for a moment. “Actually, I feel like an asshole. I shouldn’t have let it go that far.”

I can’t tell what he’s thinking, especially now that I know he’s back in touch with his ex. And it’s driving me insane. So insane, to the point of insecurity. “It was okay, right? Last night?”

He doesn’t respond right away. In fact, his smile disappears into gray neutrality. It’s still completely unreadable.

Fuck my life. I loved it. He hated it. I nearly pulled my hamstring for nothing. All I want to do is crawl into a ball and remain motionless.

Finally, his smile returns. “Okay? You’d rate that as just okay?”

“No. It was good. Really good. Was it for you too?” I cover my face with my hands, peeking through the cracks between my fingers.

He cocks his neck back. “Are you kidding me? Last night is ingrained in my memory. Etched into a sacred stone tablet.”

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