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“I’m happy for him.” He takes a drink, a drip falling from the straw as he puts it back down.

I watch as he brushes it off his arm with his thumb.

His forearms meet the bar top as he threads his fingers together.

He looks over at me and, like always, plays Devil’s advocate.

“I’d put money on the fact that you aren’t happy about it. ”

I scoff. “I’m not particularly happy about the change that comes with it, but I am happy for the two of them.” I sigh, oh to have the love they have. “They deserve the life they’re building together. I don’t know of two people better suited for each other than they are.”

His only acknowledgment is a nod. “Wanna talk about earlier?” Like a pin to a balloon, I pop .

“Nope,” I bite out as my fingers fidget with the corner of the napkin in my lap. There are many things I’d rather do than talk about earlier. Like watch paint dry, or roll around in shards of glass naked as the day I was born.

The scent of sand and sea hangs in the air, but all I can smell is that night. Sweat, the awful cologne they wore, the sweetness of the pounds of product they used to keep their hair in the perfect place. I blink hard, willing the phantom sensation of hands on my arms and waist to go away.

He doesn’t push, but I know what he sees: someone controlling, bossy. What he doesn’t see is the girl I was before. The girl who had control ripped from her. The girl who learned the only way to keep herself safe, was to take it back and hold on for dear life.

I start to open my mouth, ready to deflect for what feels like the hundredth time today, but in a stroke of luck, our food arrives before either of us can say another word.

The smell of chicken tenders and fries pushes out the lingering scents from the past. I don’t think I’ve ever been more thankful for greasy, fried food in my life.

“Praise the Lord,” I mutter as I reach for a fry like it’s a magic wand with the capability of erasing all memories of today.

He doesn’t say anything else, but the heat from his stare is hot on the side of my face.

He’s still looking, still seeing entirely too much.

I, however, shove a fry in my mouth and pretend I don’t have a care in the world.

After we finish eating, we take the scenic route back to Tatum’s. The drive is peaceful, the rumble of the engine shaking the remaining unease out of me as we go. The warmth from his back against my cheek is oddly satisfying .

There’s never been a time I’ve wanted to share this part of my life with someone.

Never been a time where I wanted to admit I found myself in a situation where I was overpowered and broken in a way I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

Left to bleed on the floor of a supply closet, alone.

Every part of me felt violated, used, and disgusting.

I hated myself for years. Sometimes I still do.

When we get back to Tatum's apartment, I grab my purse and walk straight back out to my car. I don’t give myself time to second guess myself, just make a beeline for the driver’s side before I do something stupid. Like, admit that maybe, he isn’t the absolute worst.

I don’t trust myself around him anymore today. This new development in his ability to be a decent human being, mixed with the freeze I had and all those accompanying emotions, has made my decision-making skills non-existent.

I yank my door open with more force than necessary, sliding in and gripping the door handle like it might stop the tiny voice in my head that’s telling me to stay, to see if that softness from earlier was just a fluke, a momentary lapse of reason.

To test if maybe, just maybe, Hannah was right and there’s more to him than the infuriating jerk of a soccer player I’ve barely tolerated up until now.

Negative Ghost Rider, not going there. Not now, not ever.

“I still don’t like you,” I yell, forcing my voice to stay steady. I’m met with a beat of silence.

“Ditto.” He says, his voice gravely, but with an undercurrent of what feels a lot like amusement, floats through the garage.

He’s standing there with his thumb hooked into the silver chain hanging around his neck, his strong legs separated just enough to make it look like he could stand there all day and watch me spiral without moving an inch. And God help me, that smirk. Cocky, knowing, and straight up sinful.

I shut the door and throw the car in reverse, slamming my foot on the gas like I’m running from something.

Maybe I am. I grit my teeth and focus on the road ahead.

I just want to get home and go to sleep.

My brain needs a hard reset. And maybe my hormones need one too, because what the heck?

! Have I mentioned his arms? The way the veins run down them, just begging for me to trace them. Nope.

I think the hell not.

My glove hits Nelson’s mitt with so much force that he stumbles. “Geez, Butterfly.” He says as he flings the mitt off his hand and into the corner of the ring. “What happened?” He shakes out his hand in an effort to stop the pain, I’m assuming.

I drop to the floor with a huff, pulling my knees into my chest, then crossing them at the ankle. I wrap my arms around the outside of my legs, letting my hands dangle in the middle. “I ran into them yesterday.” His eyebrows shoot up, only realizing what I’m saying when I don’t elaborate.

“ Them , them?” I nod. “How are you doing?” I know what he means, but it doesn’t stop me from laughing.

“I’m here, beating the crap out of your mitts.

Clearly, I’m not great.” I wish I could say I was fine and dandy, but in reality, I’m just pissed.

“I froze, Nelson. Froze.” I smack the floor with my unglov ed hand as the anger tears through my bloodstream.

“A decade of doing this, and when I needed it, it was like I've never thrown a punch in my life.”

What do you do in that situation? When you’ve prepared for something you hope will never happen, then it does, and your mind goes blank.

I couldn’t even tell you what they said yesterday, but I can tell you the cologne they had on.

It was the same one they wore in college.

The one that haunted me for years, that every time I caught the scent I’d haul ass in the opposite direction .

I feel the tears building behind my eyes, and I hate it. I hate every second of it. I hate being weak, I hate crying. But most of all, I hate being out of control. We leave tomorrow for a week. A week that’s going to be chaotic. I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time for feelings.

“What’s wrong with me?” I ask as I look up from the floor.

My eyes meet his dark brown ones that have always reminded me of a chocolate bar. He gives me a sad half-smile before he sits down on the mat with me. “There is nothing wrong with you, Abby.”

I beg to freaking differ.