Page 81 of Spearcrest Queen

“At night? On Valentine’s Day?” I shake my head. “It’s okay. I can accept it. He’s moved on. It’s reasonable. I expected it. Really, it’s what I get for drunk-textingmy ex.”

It should sound unbothered and self-deprecating, but even I can tell it sounds dejected and hurt. And now that the alcohol is dissipating in my system and the green tea is sobering me up, the reality of what I’ve done, of my own weakness, of Evan having moved on, is so cold and stark that I could freeze to death.

“It’s a rite of passage,” Elle says, squeezing my shoulder. “We all go through it at one point or another.”

“I know, but—”

A knock on the door makes us both jump. Hot tea spills over my finger. Elle straightens up, wide-eyed. We look at each other.

“Oh my god,” she whispers like there’s a murderer out there.

“It’s not him,” I whisper back—for no reason other than I’m panicking.

“Who else?”

“Sol?”

“She’s staying the night with her boyfriend.”

“Maybe they argued?”

Elle frowns at me. “Um, did you not see him trying to reach her soul via her mouth with his tongue? They’re doing everything tonightbutarguing.”

“Ugh, Elle. Gross.”

“Go open the door.”

My heart stutters and my knees almost buckle. I catch myself on the counter.

“You go open the door. I feel like I’m going to throw up.”

“Oh my god, fine!”

Elle disappears into the hallway. I lean against the counter, holding on for dear life, hoping against all hope that my face isn’t bright red, that I’m not going to collapse, that I’m sober enough not to cry or embarrass myself, hoping it’s anyone but him, anyone but him, literally: the police, the FBI, a burglar,a psychotic mass-murderer, that spineless creep Luca Fletcher-Lowe, just nothim, not—

“Evan?”

Elle’s voice reaches me from the hallway. I clap my hands over my cheeks in horror: they’re boiling hot. Oh god. Oh no.

Oh yes.Finally.

“You know what?” I hear Elle say. “I get it now.”

I’m going to kill her. I’m going to kill her with my own hands.

Evan walks into theflat with his hands in his coat pockets, and my stomach flips like the entire world has just tilted upside down.

Almost a year.

It’s been almost a year, and I know I should’ve expected him to look different, but somehow I didn’t. And he doesn’t look different, because he still has that ridiculous frame, the broad shoulders and big arms and long legs, and that wheat-gold hair and those summer blue eyes, but heisdifferent, too.

He’s filled out a bit, his skin glowing. His hair is perfectly cut, pushed away from his face. He looks tired, like he’s been working all day, but also relaxed at the same time. He looks calm and confident and in control.

I hate it. I hate him.

I drink in the sight of him like I’ve been parched, like I could drink till I was sick. And when my eyes finally settle on his, it’s to find him looking at me, eyes slowly making their way up over my bare legs, my body, my sweatshirt, my mouth. And then his eyes settle on mine, and he blinks, slow and satisfied, and the corners of his lips lift in a knowing smirk.

“Nice outfit.”

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