There he is. “I know that was crazy. But I thought we seemed to have chemistry lately.”Say it. Say it! This is your chance!“And… I really… I really like you, Mav. You’re my best friend, and we…”
He shakes his head. “We can’t do this. We shouldneverdo this.”
Wait.
What?
Did I hear that right?
Based on the expression on his face, he didnotwant to kiss me.
I can’t breathe. I struggle to inhale as I ask the question I already know the answer to. “Do you not… Do you not feel that way about me?”
His expression goes blank, and that sense of dread tightens like a coil in my chest. “I don’t, Bay, and I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression.”
I’m going to die.
Right here, right now, I’m going to drop dead of mortification.
Or if I’m lucky, the ground will open up and swallow me.
I leap up, grab my phone, and shake my head, hating the way my eyes sting. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Forget I said anything.”
“Baylee, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to?—”
The heartache seizing my body instantly turns to anger. “Don’t fucking apologize. That’s worse. Just… erase tonight from your memory.” A treacherous tear tracks down my cheek. “Forget we ever kissed. It never happened. You’re free to fuck Nicole or Penelope or all the goddamn cheerleaders you want.”
Before he can say anything, I race out of the bedroom.
Some tortured part of me hopes he’ll run after me, but he doesn’t.
And a few weeks later, he goes to homecoming with Nicole.
1
BAYLEE
ALMOST SIX YEARS LATER
JUNE
They saybad things happen in threes. I’ve never believed that until today.
As I scan the letter from the salon’s landlord, my eyes widen at the rent hike.
With a pit in my stomach, I throw my car in gear and race to work. I have a million things to do before I leave for Dallas this afternoon, so I don’t have time to deal with this.
Freaking out will have to wait.
But seriously, I run a salon, not a bank. There’s no way I can swing that rent unless I increase the prices on everything, and I’m not sure our customers can afford to pay more.
I park my car and jog around the corner to the salon.
“Son of a—” I skid to a stop next to Miss Rosie, my elderly client, who’s getting a cut and color this morning.
“Oh, dear.” She covers her mouth with a weathered hand. “Didn’t you just get that artwork done?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Last week, I hired a local artist to paintbumblebees and flowers on our salon window. I wanted to spruce up the place a little. That window now has a massive hole. Glass lies shattered on the ground, and jagged shards encircle the opening.
