“I bet you do,” I lean in closer. “Now do you want me to knee you in the balls or just scratch your eyes out?”
“Both, baby,” he smiles so bright I want to punch him in his stupid face. “Besides, you won’t mess up your boyfriend’s face.”
“B-boyfriend?” I stutter, just as the elevator door dings open, and he slides out with a large grin—because not once has Landon ever asked, nor have I ever said, that Landon Heart is my fucking boyfriend. I don’t want that. I mean, yeah, we spend every day together, and he makes me feel safe, and I stole his jacket, and I love the way he smells, and—holy shit—Landon Heart is my boyfriend.
“What’s up, Casty?” Landon sings as I follow him out of the elevator.
Cast glares at him, nostrils flared in annoyance. “Don’t call me that, Landon, unless you want your teeth knocked in.”
Landon chuckles, looking around with a look of pure amusement. “Damn, does everyone have to be so touchy today?”
I twist up my face, trying to gather the little bit of anger I can muster. “I don’t care who the hell you think you are, Landon. You can’t just drag me wherever?—”
I hear a sharp inhale and my eyes dart up to the balcony—then my heart basically stops in my chest. My platonic soulmate. The love of my fucked-up life. The only person I wanted to call when Tommy died is staring at me with her big hazel eyes, already welling up with tears.
“Jasmine?” she whispers my name like it’s a prayer, and I answer it by smashing her body into mine.
We collide in the center of the room, arms wrapped around each other in a tangle of desperation and disbelief. Her fingers grip the lapels of Landon’s leather jacket. My arms crush her closer. A sob rips through my chest, raw and ugly, and she’s crying too—but it’s the kind of crying that’s so full of relief it makes you dizzy.
“God, I’m going to kick your ass,” I choke into her shoulder. “You—Willow, you can’t just disappear like that.”
“Don’t,” she whispers, voice breaking. “Please. Just let me have this.”
She nods against me, and we hold on tighter. It feels like home. It feels like a part of my soul that left when Tommy died—and I failed to kill Marcus—came back to me. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in a long fucking time, and it hurts. It feels like a collision.
When we finally pull apart, I drink her in like I’ve been drowning. She looks older, but not in a tired way. Like she’s earned every edge. Her curly hair is shorter, and she looks like she’s seen things. She doesn’t look like my innocent Willow whofreaked out about a mini skirt just two years ago. She looks so strong, I can barely stand it.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” she whispers in a choked voice.
I take a step closer, my fingertips tracing the smooth curve of her jaw, as if I have to make sure she is real. “I didn’t think I’d see you either. But here you are. And that’s enough for me.”
She nods, pulling me in to bury her face in my hair, and I inhale sharply to get that purely Willow scent of coconuts during winter. After a moment, she pulls back and analyzes my face. Her eyes take in my hair, the bags under my eyes—if I wasn’t such a good liar, she would be able to smell the depression on me. But luckily for me, I don’t want her to look too close. To see how her being gone broke me so much. So I arch a brow and try to suck in the tear curling around my eyelashes.
“What? Never seen a badass before?”
She sniffles out a laugh and shakes her head. “Not one who still dresses like she’s about to fight the Devil and win.”
I push out a laugh and tug Landon’s jacket tighter. “Damn right.”
Landon sighs, followed by his shitty little snort, and I turn around to growl at him. Because did he take care of me for the last month? Yes. But does that make me any less of a badass ready to win against the Devil? Fuck no.
I narrow my eyes on him. “Jackass. You are so on my shit list.”
A snort escapes Willow and I turn to see her rocking on the balls of her feet. “Um… so, life updates, yes?”
My eyes widen—because fuck, how do I tell my lifelong bestie, who knew I was a lesbian since middle school, that I’m not a lesbian anymore? More like bisexual, but that shouldn’t matter. Sexuality is a spectrum—constantly changing and evolving—and Willow is my bestie, so I can tell her everything. Like how Landon is my new maybe-boyfriend, I’m having a minor affair with my cop professor Conner Kilgore, and oh yeah—I’m completely obsessed with Brooke du Pont, despite not seeing two out of three of my people in the last three weeks. I have no doubt they’re mine. Even if we haven’t talked about it yet, because it feels true. It feels right.
I take a deep breath and point to the smug British bastard. “Landon, meet my runaway bestie, Willow. Willow, meet one of my partners, Landon.”
She blinks, smacking her lips twice before saying, “Excuse me?”
I roll my eyes at her dramatics, because this girl hasthreeguys. Three guys who tormented her in high school. Three guys she tried to rob, and I am a hundred percent sure one of them—Damien—just hate-fucks her. So there should be, like, zero judgment.
“Don’t start?—”
“No, hold on.” She cuts me off, pointing between Landon and me. “He’s a guy. And last I checked, you were a lesbian. Like, from birth. You swore off men before we even knew how to spell compulsory heterosexuality.”
I snort, crossing my arms, because of course my bestie would never judge the poly thing—more theyou’re not gaything, which would shock most people. “First of all, rude. Second ofall, I wasbicurious—” I wiggle my fingers dramatically, “—which means I had a question, and I sought an answer.”
