CHAPTER NINETEEN #4
I don't care about that grin—that irritatingly familiar grin he used to save only for me.
And now he's flashing it at someone else.
Whatever.
Tammy keeps right on talking, oblivious to the way my pulse is detonating in my ears. "You know Zach's whole thing—never the same girl twice, one-and-done. He's practically famous for it. But I guess Taylor was the exception. And why wouldn't she be? Look at them."
She waves her hand toward the pair like she's presenting royalty. "They're both stupid attractive. It's like they were genetically designed for each other. Total sex appeal overload."
"Yeah," Katie agrees with a sigh, propping her chin in her hand. "Other women are just... blessed to even breathe the same air."
"Maybe they're dating already," Tammy shrugs. "Who knows?"
I swallow hard, forcing my gaze away, pretending my throat isn't tight, pretending this isn't some cruel joke from the universe.
Dating. Zach and Taylor.
A sharp pinch blooms under my ribs, spreading until it's hard to pull a full breath. My hand presses flat against my sternum like I can shove it back down, like I can keep my traitor heart from clawing up my throat.
Pathetic. God, I hate that I even feel this. Didn't I retire from this weak-girl crap three years ago?
Remember, Caroline. Remember what he said.
I don't see her that way. I never will.
She's not... girlfriend material.
You know me. You know the girls I go for.
I don't date fat chicks.
Fat chick. You. That's you. He called you a fat chick. Remember that?
The words slam through me like glass shards, sharp and cold, each one cutting deeper than the last.
My fingers curl into fists on the tabletop, knuckles blanching, then unfurl again just as fast. Clench, unclench. Anger bubbles up, hot and acidic, burning through the ache until it's all I can taste.
I force myself to look back, ready to tear my eyes away from this whole perfect, glossy picture—Taylor on his lap, his smile stretched wide, like none of it costs him a damn thing.
And that's when it happens.
His head lifts.
His grin falters.
And my ex best friend's eyes slam straight into mine.
The bar is loud—music pounding, voices crashing, glasses clinking—but somehow, I swear I hear it.
"Sugarplum...?"
Barely there. A thread of sound. Or maybe just my memory filling in the blanks.
CHAPTER TWELVE
CAROLINE
My lungs seize. My chest feels too small, too tight, like my ribs are squeezing around a heart that's sprinting laps.
But no. Nope. Not happening.
I tear my gaze away, snapping it back to the table, to my friends—pretending. Acting. Like we weren't just locked in some stupid, silent staring contest across a crowded bar.
Maybe he doesn't recognize me. Yeah. That's it.
From head to toe, I'm not the same girl.
The nut-brown hair is gone, replaced by this silver mane I actually love now, sleek and shining under the neon lights.
My body's not the soft, round mess it used to be—I'm all lean lines, toned arms, a waist that actually dips in, legs that look long in these skinny black jeans.
The crop top clings in ways old-me would've never dared.
Even my makeup, sharp and clean, feels like armor.
He probably doesn't know it's me. Why would he?
I force myself to smile, nodding at whatever Tammy's saying, laughing when the other girls laugh, like my mind isn't a full-blown tornado. Like my pulse isn't hammering because out of my peripheral vision, I can see it—I can see him.
Zach.
Pushing Taylor off his lap. Standing.
And walking straight toward me.
Shit! Damn it!
Calm down, Caroline. Pretend he doesn't exist. Act nonchalant.
I grab the celery stick from my plate like it's the world's finest steak and sink my teeth in, chewing slow, deliberate. As if celery is suddenly the most delectable dish I've ever had.
Sell it, Care. You're a drama student, for God's sake. If you can't pull this off, what the hell have you even been practicing for?
The chatter at our table falters. Stops.
That's how I know he's here.
Because my friends' eyes go wide, their mouths slack open, and every gaze drags upward, away from me.
He's here. Standing right in front of us.
"Ca... Caroline?"
My entire body stiffens.
His voice. God. It's deeper. Rougher. Like time added grit to it. But it's still him. Still Zach. And the way it wraps around my name—like he's tasting it for the first time in years—it hits me low, sharp.
My grip on the celery tightens until the stalk cracks in my hand. Still, I keep chewing. Eyes down.
"It's you, right?" He clears his throat, voice uneven. "Caroline, it's really you, right?"
I don't look at him. Won't.
But I can feel him staring—burning through me.
The girls' heads swivel between us like they're watching a tennis match, expressions shifting from shock to awe to what the actual hell? The question's clear in their wide eyes: You know Zach Westbrook?
"How... I thought you were in New York." His words tumble out, disbelieving, but threaded with something else.
Relief? Gladness? Like maybe he's been waiting for me...
Yeah, right. As if!
I bite the inside of my cheek, keep chewing the celery like it's my only lifeline, and finally—finally—I let my eyes flick upward.
Straight into his.
But there's nothing soft in my gaze. No warmth, no flicker of the girl he used to know. If looks could kill, he'd already be six feet under. Because that's what he deserves.
The old Caroline—the one who lit up like a lost puppy every time she saw him—she's gone. Dead and buried with all the weight I shed and the delusions I burned.
Zach's grin falters. His brows pull in the slightest bit, a crease forming between them.
For a split second—maybe I imagined it—there's a flicker in his eyes. Something that looks like hurt. But no. No way. I'm not giving him that credit. My brain's just playing tricks.
"You two know each other?" Lucy's voice cuts in.
"No," I snap, turning to her with a flat stare, the word sharp and fast, like a door slamming shut.
"Yes," Zach says at the exact same time.
I whip back to him, eyes narrowing, daggers flying.
He has the audacity—the audacity—to arch one brow at me, like he's amused by this, like I'm some game he just stumbled back into. "Yes, we do."
"We don't," I fire back instantly, glaring harder.
His mouth quirks at the corner, that stupid almost-smile like he's enjoying himself. "We definitely do."
"We absolutely don't."
"Caroline." He leans an inch closer, eyes locked on mine like he's trying to reel me in. "We do."
The table's gone quiet, but I can feel it—Tammy, Lucy, Katie—every pair of eyes bouncing back and forth between us like we're the damn US Open.
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
It's ridiculous, childish, infuriating. And judging by the twitch in his jaw, the slight curl to his lip, he knows exactly what he's doing—poking, prodding, dragging this out just to see me squirm.
And the worst part? My friends are eating it up.
"Seriously," Katie finally blurts, eyes darting between us like she's about to explode. "What is it? Do you two actually know each other or not?"
"Yes," Zach answers before I can open my mouth. "We grew up in Naples. We're next door neighbors, actually. Friends—" his eyes flick to mine, softening, "no, best friends. For twenty-one years."
My laugh is humorless, and cuts straight through his little speech. "Not anymore."
His brow furrows, the easy amusement he had a second ago draining out of his face.
"And set the record straight, Westbrook—we were only friends for eighteen years." I lean forward just enough, "But honestly? I don't even know if we ever really were."
It's like I just slapped him.
His smile is gone, confusion etching into every line of his face.
"What the hell's that supposed to mean?" His voice is lower now, searching, like he's actually desperate for an answer.
I don't give him one.
Instead, I push back my chair, grab my purse, and stand. My hand slips into my wallet, tugging out a crisp hundred. I set it on the table like it's a full stop to this entire conversation.
"Care?" Tammy's voice cracks. "Wait—what? You're leaving? You literally just got here."
Lucy frowns, wide-eyed. "Yeah, what's going on?"
I force a smile that doesn't come close to my eyes. "Forgot I'm supposed to meet Adam tonight. We've got lines to run."
Katie blinks. "But—"
"See you all tomorrow," I cut in, already turning, already walking. I don't give them time to protest again. I can feel Zach's stare drilling into me, but I keep my eyes forward.
The noise of the bar swallows me as I weave toward the exit, head high, steps brisk. I'm already pulling out my phone, thumb flying over the Uber app. Closest ride: seven minutes.
Ugh. Seven minutes too long.
"Caroline—wait!"
Of course. Heavy footsteps behind me, the voice I swore I'd never let crack me again snapping at my heels.
"What's going on?" he demands, close now. "Why are you here? Why are you in Miami instead of New York?"
I quicken my pace, eyes locked on the glowing EXIT sign ahead.
"Did you really transfer to my school—in Ridgewater U? When did that happen?"
His questions hit like rapid fire, every word tugging at a thread I refuse to unravel.
I don't answer. Not one.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"And why would I tell you?" I snap before I can stop myself.
He halts mid-stride, his head jerking back like I'd just slapped him.
A scoff tumbles out, sharp and disbelieving, and he throws his hands out in this helpless, exaggerated gesture. "Uh, well, I don't know." His voice pitches higher, incredulous. "Because we're friends?"
We're outside now. The night air is thick with cigarette smoke from a group of guys loitering by the curb, their laughter cutting through the haze. Cars whiz past on the street, headlights flashing, horns blaring.
Across the way, a club door swings open, dumping bass-heavy music onto the sidewalk every time someone stumbles in or out.