The sounds from that room invade my ears, vibrate through me, call to every part ofme.
Including parts I thought weredead.
I peer around the doorframe, an inch at a time, holding mybreath.
Inside, there’s a man sitting on astool.
A man with dark hair falling across his forehead who plays guitar as though he was born to doit.
My heart stops, every bodily function except my eyes and ears shuttingdown.
For months after he walked out of my life, it was all I could do not to picture him, to think about where he was, with whom, doingwhat.
His hair is jet and styled, no trace of blue. His mouth is firmer, more sculpted. His black dress shirt is crisp. Lines of black snake out from under rolled sleeves, twining around muscled forearms like an embrace as heplays.
When Tyler left, it gutted me. I can’t think about the things I did in those weeks and months. The broken girl who cared too much, arguing with the universe, wanting Tyler, wantingus.
One dark, empty, soulless day, I decided it was time to mourn both. I moved forward because there’s nothing else to do, because you can keep living orstop.
But Tyler Adams is in New York. At the school that’smydream.
The boy who broke my heart doesn’t lookdestroyed…
He lookswhole.
Tyler sets down the guitar and looks up but not at me. A girl with dark, edgy hair, wearing jeans and a loose sweater, slides onto his lap. His hands—those beautiful hands I used to dream about—thread into her hair, and it’s as if they’re reaching into my belly, grabbing hold of my stomach, and cranking it. One vicious turn afteranother.
“Miss?”
I whirl as the administration guy appears near myelbow.
“They’re waiting foryou.”
I nod tightly, but before I follow him down the hall, I look back toward theroom.
Tyler’s attention isn’t on the girl in his lap. His gorgeous brown eyes are wide and locked withmine.
Because my twisted muse, my rebel prince, my ex-friend…
He seesme.
And he’s every bit as fucking floored as Iam.
* * *