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“Babe, so what do you think? Would your brother be interested in investing?” Dayton sprawls on his sofa in his loft in Brooklyn, which unfortunately is littered with his usual man cave mess—half empty bottles of hard liquor and takeout containers.

I pretend I don’t hear him as I head into his kitchen to buy myself a few seconds.

For the last few weeks, I’ve done some soul searching.

With IBA on spring break and my project for school done—I got a C because I suck at finance—I had time to think about my relationship with him.

Originally, I wanted to avoid hurt feelings and let the relationship end when I graduate from high school.

But if it isn’t going anywhere and my feelings for him aren’t changing, what’s the point of wasting more time?

Rip the bandage off, Lexy.

Just tell him.

I grab my messenger bag filled with stuff he left at my place, which isn’t a lot since I usually meet him here—a Columbia shirt, a sports watch, and a toothbrush—and walk back into the living room, finding him staring expectantly at me.

He gives me the familiar wry grin and tosses me a flash drive.

“Found some old pics from Homecoming. Thought you might want copies. It was fun, right? I miss Broadbent.”

“Right. Good ol’ days. Thanks for this.” I strain a smile and stuff the drive into my bag, a small pinch of guilt slicing through me.

“So? The investment? I’ve burned through the money you loaned me for setup costs. But the fund is an opportunity. ”

He waves a sheet of paper with graphs and numbers in front of me.

“Bank of Columbia would be an excellent fit. I saved a PDF of this on the drive I just gave you—financial stuff for Charles if he wants them. Maybe we can pitch it to him together?”

Dayton takes out his phone, his legs bouncing.

He’s either excited or nervous, and these days, I can’t really tell, but I stop him.

“I don’t think this is working.”

He freezes, and for a moment, the hardened glint I saw in his eyes awhile back from the guy who was afraid of cops and whispering on the phone is back.

But that expression wipes off his face almost immediately.

“What do you mean, babe? The fund? Come on, we talked about this. We need this fund to work.”

No, you need this fund.

I don’t know the first thing about numbers.

He rambles, “You and I were going to be the Vaughn-Holden all-stars at Columbia. We’d get this fund off the road, grow our own fortune and make a name for ourselves. You’d get to do whatever you want with the profit—go to spas, travel around the world, get some nice handbags.”

Spas and handbags.

My hand fists the strap of my messenger bag, but he doesn’t notice and continues, “But don’t worry,” he stares at me with that damn pity in his eyes, “I’ll carry the weight. We’re good together.”

“T-That’s not what I meant, Dayton. I just don’t think you and I are going to work out. I don’t—”

He clasps my shoulders and squeezes softly.

“Baby, I know I’ve been too busy. I see you writing to your pen pal all the time and I think you’re talking to her because I don’t have time for you, right?”

I swallow.

I don’t correct him that Keeper is a guy, not a girl.

“I’m sorry. But like I said, things are looking up with the fund and I just finished midterms. I have a lot more time now. Do you want to do something fun? I’ll take you to that new bookstore you wanted to check out? ”

His words are a barrage of bullets, slamming into me at breakneck speed, and my throat closes up.

Dayton clasps my cheek and stares at me reverently.

“We don’t have to call Charles now. We can talk about this later, okay?”

The vein is still pulsing in his temple.

I stare mutedly at him, my muscles coiled as the air thickens with tension.

“Let’s watch a movie? Gone with the Wind. You liked that old shit, right? Your favorite?” No.

It isn’t my favorite, and you should know that.

Dayton pats my cheek and walks away, like I didn’t just break up with him.

It’s wrong. All wrong.

“Dayton, I’m serious. We’re done. Things have changed, and I know what I want in a relationship and it’s not this. I don’t go to bed at night thinking about you or want to text you when I wake up in the morning. I’m sorry!”

“Babe, don’t do this. This is about the investment, right? I won’t borrow money from you again.”

Not wanting to drag this out for longer, I stride to the door.

But I pause at the threshold, and turn around.

His face is flushed but his eyes are downcast like he’s pained.

He doesn’t follow me.

“Good luck with everything, Dayton.”

I close the door and rush out onto the busy streets, barely noticing the crowds of commuters and tourists rushing by.

My heart ricochets against my rib cage and I feel dizzy.

I thought I’d be sad.

Crying even. After all, he was my first boyfriend.

Dayton was good to me even if it was strange toward the end.

But instead, I feel a million times lighter.

Like I can pirouette around the stage effortlessly, with the grace and talent I’ve seen from Lil’ Tay and the other dancers.

My lips split into a grin as I run down the street, not caring about the bystanders pointing at me or the cabs honking their horns when I dash across the crosswalks just as the light turns red .

I don’t even know where I’m going until I find myself standing in front of the building with dark columns and intricate carvings of ravens in flight.

Ravenswood Library.

It’s Friday and I’m not supposed to be here.

Keeper drops off the journal on Fridays.

But excitement flutters through me, sending little bursts of electricity through my nerves, all pointing to one impulse.

I want to see him. Keeper.

I want to tell him I broke up with Dayton.

It feels important he should be the first person to know.

I want to find out if his hair is black or brown, or if he’s a redhead like me.

Does he have a confident swagger or a shy demeanor?

Is his voice raspy or a rich baritone?

Sweat beads the back of my neck as I stare at the familiar wooden door, the s woosh, swoosh, swoosh of my pulse obliterating all rational thought.

He’s in there. He’s got to be.

Swallowing, I push the door and step inside, my heavy breathing sounding loud in the quiet space.

I head straight toward the DVD collection in the basement.

My riddle for him last week had a twist in it.

The answer wasn’t a book, but a film, my favorite movie of all time.

I wonder if he’s figured it out yet.

The fluorescent lights flicker on and off as I tiptoe down the narrow stairs.

Soon, the DVD and music rental room comes into view.

People huddle over computers, a few folks with headphones covering their ears.

Is he the lanky guy standing by the corner in the black T-shirt, browsing the new releases?

Or the balding young man sitting on the floral couch, looking at his laptop?

The room spins—or it’s the excitement causing the blood to rush to my head.

“Miss, do you know where the romance section is?” a deep, raspy voice sounds from my right and I jolt.

Turning around, my breath stalls as I stare at luminous gray eyes affixed to a handsome face I’d recognize anywhere.

The guy I bumped into in front of the building a few months ago .

Ares, the god of war.

He’s wearing a gray dress shirt which molds to his muscular chest and showcases his sexy forearms. His eyes rove over my face and I wait for a spark of recognition.

But nothing comes.

Dummy.

Just because you remember handsome faces doesn’t mean you are unforgettable.

Keeper will recognize me on sight.

I shake myself. “It’s down there in the far right corner.”

“Right. Picking up something for a friend. Thanks.” Ares walks off as I stare at his backside like an idiot.

The encounter is a bucket of ice water doused over my head.

I look around, and the room has stopped spinning.

What the hell am I doing here?

Keeper is a trusted friend, and we have set rules.

If I break them, I’ll lose the friendship.

You are unforgettable, remember that.

And I’ll always remember you.

His beautiful words from the entry I reread every day on my phone.

He’s the only person who thinks I’m unforgettable.

I can’t lose this connection.

Cold sweat dots my forehead and I quickly rush back up the stairs, hoping Keeper hasn’t seen me yet, and we can continue our clandestine relationship longer.

Once I’m in front of the building, I whip out my phone and text the number assigned to me by the Anonytext app.

Alex

It’s me. I did it.

Proud of me, Keeper?

A few seconds pass by and he replies.

Delaney

I figured it’s high time you have a name to call me.

Delaney

Does your text mean what I think it means?