Page 8 of For The Record

He rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t know. Maybe because I hate you.”

The words hurt me more than I thought they would. “What?”

“Not like that, Skye, I just mean… I’ve been working for this thing, for this record deal, for all my life. And now I’ve got it. I got the deal, I won the show, but now it’s all tangled up with you. I wanted it to be about the music.”

“Not who you’re dating,” I whisper. I can understand that much, at least. “I’m sorry… I wish it didn’t have to be like this.”

He shakes his head, fiddling with the aux cord. “Wishing never did anything for us, did it?”

What we had was built on a wish. “Maybe we should stay out of each other’s way for a while.”

“I’ll still see you at the party, though, right?” he says, looking up from his car radio. “It would just be nice, to know someone there.”

“I have to be there since I’m throwing it.” I shrug. “But after that… we’re not friends. Okay?”

He nods, and backs out of the garage, leaving me with nothing but the scent of exhaust.

Chapter 5: Skye Holland

In retrospect, attending my ex-boyfriend’s party was a truly horrendous idea, only fueled by vodka, gin, tequila, or the prospect of watchingThe Bachelor. Alone. On a Saturday night.

Six days have passed since I last saw Ryder Black in person. I wish I could lie and say he looks like he’s had a quarter-life crisis in the past week. I’d love to get a smug thrill of satisfaction, seeing him with dark circles under his eyes and baggy clothes and body odour. Instead, he got his hair professionally styled, he’s wearing a leather jacket that makes him look like James Dean, and he’s living his best life. Oh yeah, and people online are making memes of “Ryder Black’s ex when she sees him on TV.” So, yeah. That’s the cherry on top.

Despite our conversation, a lingering sense of bitterness hangs over me like a dark cloud. Will I ever move on from him? Will I ever get on with my life?

Taking a deep breath, I go to enter the throngs of people and disappear. But when I see a dark-haired figure making his way toward me… I hide. Diving behind a potted plant, I scooch my way over to the open bar. It’s mostly empty, except for a few people who are frantically texting, looking like they would rather be anywhere else. I can relate.

I plunk down and order a vodka soda, needing the pure burn, clean and untainted by any sweeteners or chasers. Just as raw as my heart feels.

When I pick up my glass from its paper coaster, a man slides onto the barstool next to me. “Whiskey, neat.”

I sip my vodka soda and give him the once-over, from his black wingtips and well-tailored tuxedo with a coral tie to his jawline, which my best friend would call the perfect combination of scruffy and sharp. His piercing green eyes stand out against his olive skin as he gazes pensively into his tumbler. He’s cute. Or, as Poppy would say:he’s not my type, since I’m about ninety percent sure she is only into guys who look like they spend all their free time playing DnD.

Catching him turning his head toward me, I quickly refocus on my drink with its single ice cube. I realize he’s the man who was pushing through the crowd; the one I reflexively mistook for Ryder. A blush heats my neck at the mistake and I drain my cup, desperately seeking the liquid courage that seems to be leaching from my body the more I consider the possibility of running into my ex-boyfriend.

Against my will, my eyes travel from the white marble-topped bar to the stranger on my left again. He’s older than me, at least in his late 20s or early 30s. I don’t spy a wedding ring, only gold cufflinks with emerald stones that seem to wink at me when he gulps whiskey. I suck in another deep breath and look away again.

Focus, Skye. Checking out older guys is not on my to-do list for this party. Instead, I made a plan. A very comprehensive plan.

Step one: Get in. Easy enough, since now I technically work for Ryder’s PR team and part of my job was to plan this party.

Step two: Unclear.

Step three: avoid my ex at all costs.

Okay, maybe my plan is missing one step. Or a hundred. But to be fair, no one is ever rational or logical when it comes to their ex. Even if I have convinced myself, Poppy, and my other friends that I am totally over him.

Whiskey, Neat pivots his head toward me, a smile playing on his full lips. “Did I leave my clown nose on, or is there another reason you keep staring at me?”

Panic and intrigue flood my system at the same time, glueing me to the barstool. I’m too curious about his words to leave now, even if I did want to re-enter the danger zone. I clear my throat and lift my chin. Skye Holland is not intimidated by men. I’m twenty-five, not thirteen for Pete’s sake.

“No, unless you were hired to work at this party, Mr…?”

“I’m Leo Perez. Birthday party clown, at your service,” he says.

“Is that a day job, or do you just moonlight as people’s worst nightmare?” I try to sound bold, but I’ve already let my courage slip through my fingers, my reserves sucked dry the minute he started talking to me.

“You’re confusing me with spiders,” he says easily, leaning back in his barstool.

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