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We leave for the club; it’s worse.

A dizzying assault of neon and heat and bass so loud it jars my bones. The crowd is crushing, suffocating. My skin is too tight beneath my dress, my breath too short in my constricted chest. My body aches for something, but I don’t know what.

Yes, I do.Evan.

No, I don’t. Not him. Not anymore.

At the bar, I let some guy buy me a drink, and I let him put a hand on my back, then my hip, testing the boundaries, seeing how far he can go. Isn’t that why Sol and Elle brought me here? To get over my break-up? To drown out the person I want with the meaningless cacophony of other people?

So I try, I really do. I let him pull me in, smelling overpowering cologne and unfamiliar skin. I let my head tilt back, looking up into a stranger’s eyes, a handsome, bland face. But the hands are the wrong size, the fingers are too weak, too clammy.

The touch is too different, too eager, too uncertain. He doesn’t realise that I’m a mean dark angry creature, that I need a giving mouth but a firm hand, a touch skilled enough to know how to bend the brittle metal of me without shattering it.

Even the smell is wrong, the sweat too sour, the aftershave too cloying, and suddenly I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I shove him. Hard.

He stumbles back, blinking in surprise. Then his expression curdles with irritation. “What’s your problem?”

“You’re wearing too much cologne,” I sneer. My voice is raw. “It’s giving me a headache.”

“What?”

I lean to yell over the music.

“I. Don’t. Want. You!” I smile, showing my teeth. “Sofuckoff.”

His eyes darken, lips twisting.

“Crazy bitch,” he spits before disappearing into the crowd.

I stand there, trembling, hating him, hating this stupid tacky club, hating myself most of all for letting this man even touch me. I glare at the drink he bought me and knock it back in one go. The bartender, a tall girl with a topknot and a micro-fringe, tattoos curling along her collarbones, gives me a long, searching look.

“You alright?” she asks over the pulsing music.

My entire body bristles. I throw her a disdainful glare.

“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I’mgreat.”

“Right.”

The weight of her stare makes my skin itch. I want to snap at her, tell her to mind her business, to tell her that there’s nothing wrong with me, that I’m over him, over Evan, that I don’t miss him.

Except that I do, a little bit, maybe even a lot, and I wish he were here. I want him to buy me a drink, put his strong arm around my waist, press his mouth to my ear and murmur something sweet and dirty. I want him to carry me out of here, his body shielding me against the crush of the dance floor, lift me up into his arms to take me home, drag me into his bed where he knows I belong, tuck me against his chest and never let go.

But he’s not here.

And I know exactly who took him from me.

I lean across the bar, gripping the counter, nails digging into the varnished wood. “Someone stole something from me.”

The bartender frowns. “What?”

“Nothing.”

And then I shove my way through the bodies, ignoring the protests and sharp elbows, pushing my way out of the hellscape of heat and noise and neon and laughter, and I get the fuck out of there.

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