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Oh, fuck this.

Picking her up, I throw her over my shoulder and dump her on the back seat. She stares up at me, mouth open in suchshock I find myself amused again, despite the shitty end to the night.

“I’ll see you real soon, Skippy,” I say, grinning at her. “And at least you’re single now. Andrei.” I nod at the driver. “Take this lady wherever she asks, and make sure she gets inside safely.”

“Fuck you,” Abby says, but I can see the telltale signs of a smile tweaking her mouth.

I put my hands together, mimicking prayer. “A man can dream, Skippy.”

A reluctant gurgle of laughter escapes her. “You aresuchan asshole.”

“An asshole you’ll be seeing real soon, Skip.” I touch her face, my thumb lingering on her cheek. “I promise.”

Her smile fades. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, muscle boy.”

Closing the door, she stares at me through the window as the car pulls away from the curb.

Malaga, Spain

Present Day

“Dimitry.”Gregor, the bar manager at Pillars, frowns at me. “You okay, man? Want me to call you a taxi?”

“No.” I stand up, staggering slightly, which isn’t surprising given the almost-empty bottle of vodka in front of me. “No, I’ll walk.”

I weave through the crowd, avoiding the late-night revelers, and step out onto the street, inhaling a deep breath of fresh air.

I turn toward Abby’s flat, almost tasting the memory of her on the air.

That’s where I put her into the car.

That’s where I kissed her on her lunch break one night.

We walked here after we got coffee one morning.

Every step has a memory attached. I feel as if I kissed her on every inch of this pavement, some time or another.

It only takes me fifteen minutes to walk to her apartment. I fumble in my pocket for my key. I don’t know why I bothered to bring it back to Spain with me. I know she’s not in here.

I open the downstairs door anyway.

From the stairwell, I smell the paint and turpentine immediately, even months later. The scent of it twists inside my chest so hard I think for a horrible moment that I’ll throw up. I grip the worn wood of the balustrade, breathing deeply to calm myself, then carry on up the stairs like the fucking masochist I am.

I don’t bother knocking—I know the apartment is still vacant, because I just signed the lease for another six months, even though I’m not in the country anymore.

Letting it go feels like giving up, and I’m not ready to do that. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

The old wooden door creaks open, and I stand in the doorway, just breathing.

I can smell her perfume, even over the sharp scent of the chemicals. Jasmine and orange, like a Spanish night, intoxicating and fresh all at once.

I collapse on the sagging old couch, burying my face in the Japanese silk robe still hanging over the back of it.

Jesus.I never knew it could hurt so much just to breathe.

The yellow streetlights outside gleam through the window, showing the layer of dust on every surface. Nothing has moved. Nothing has changed from the last time I was in this place.