Page 77 of Can't Always Get What You Want

I add a little stick figure of myself at the bottom before leaning it against her bathroom mirror for her to find later.

Snatch up the sticky notes on her bedside table and write “SO HOT.” Stick it to the lamp.

“TRAPPED.” Stick that to the headboard. I leave a third on her pillow: “THIS BETTER BE WORTH IT.”

I take a step back, surveying my art. My legacy. My descent into cabin-fever madness made tangible through neon paper. I flop onto her bed again, a bit lighter now. That weird kind of calm that comes after doing something impulsive and stupid but feels extremely satisfying.

The kind of calm you got when you were a teenager and would prank phone call people.

I glance up at the ceiling fan, still spinning lazily. Breathe in the faint scent of lavender, cotton, and sin.

It’s oddly peaceful now. Cozy, even.

I grin to myself.

This eveninghasbeen totally worth it.

And just as I start to doze off for real—mind blissfully quiet for the first time since I read page 247—I hear the click of the front door.

Footsteps. Soft. Familiar.

Then a pause.

Then the very distinctive sound of her laughter from the hallway. Low. Distant.

Uh-oh.

The bedroom door swings open and Nova appears, blinking once. Twice.

Her gaze sweeps the room slowly—whiteboard. Sticky notes.

I sit up slowly. Smile like I’m innocent. Like I wasn’t just leaving breadcrumbs of unhinged thoughts all over her room.

“Hi,” I say, voice calm. “Welcome back. Nice of you to show up.”

She looks at me for one long, stunned beat—like she’s trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or back out slowly and pretend this never happened.

Then she breezes across the room and flops down beside me, burying her face in the comforter with a muffled groan. “Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

I blink, not expecting the immediate guilt. “For what?”

She rolls onto her back, eyes wide, one hand gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling. “For leaving you alone. For letting Gio linger. For trapping you in here without food, water, or even Netflix access. I am aterriblehostess.”

“You are,” I agree. “Truly abysmal. I nearly died of boredom.”

She groans again. “Iknewhe was going to overstay. He brought spring rolls, Luca. I couldn’t just throw him out.”

“Yeah.” I nod in agreement. “That probably wouldn’t have gone over well and would have looked suspicious.” My stomach growls. “Did you remember to take the chicken out of the oven?”

“Oh my God, yes—let’s get you fed.” She stands again, pulling me up.

We head down the hall and into the kitchen, the air still smelling faintly of takeout and lemon. I spot the tray of oven-roasted chicken on the stovetop, now resting on a hot pad.

“Okay,” she says, opening the oven door and grabbing a mitt, “I may not be the best hostess, but I didn’t burn the lemon chicken. So that’s at least one point in my favor.”

The warm, citrusy scent floods the kitchen as she takes the top off the pan and presents it to me. It smells good—better than good—and after everything, I’m almost emotional about it.

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