He can stare all he wants.
He can go fuck himself.
I really don’t care.
With outrage burning in my blood, there is one thing I just have to do before I leave this party.
Making my way toward the stereo, I load the list Makayla chose not to play tonight and blare it loudly, so every single person in this room can hear it as soon as it starts to play.
And then, needing to get out of here, I grab the box of remaining chocolates and head toward my room.
As soon at the first song begins to play, I swing my braid over my shoulder and start singing the chorus to Taylor Swift’s “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together,” as loud as I possibly can.
Happy fucking Valentine’s Day to me!
Maggie
That dumb trope where women eat ice cream in bed and cry all night after a breakup is so passé. Chocolates, that’s the way to go.
Popping another in my mouth, I eye the clock with disdain. Seven in the morning on a Saturday and I’m awake. This is completely unacceptable.
Turning, I shove my face into my pillow, and? feel like Makayla is really starting to rub off on me. She loves the early morning, and is always so productive before noon, whereas normally on the weekends I don’t even get out of bed until then.
A loud crash from outside has me jumping out of my own skin. Sitting up to turn the light on, I look down at my white camisole to see that it is chocolate stained.
It’s his entire fault.
What is he doing here?
How dare he show up at my house!
He has some nerve.
And again, my mind wanders to Keen Masters, where it has been all night, all week, all month, all year.
I just don’t get it.
We fuck, we talk, we make plans, and he disappears without a word, and yet I’m still thinking of him to the point of obsessing.
It’s so crazy.
Another boom and I’m swinging my legs off my bed and rushing toward my French doors, which overlook the beach.
The rumble of the thunder grows louder.
Peeking through my blinds, the speed at which the clouds are moving, and the fact that the sky is as black as it is even though the sun is up, brings instant worry.
As I open my door, the cool wind blows harder than I had expected and the handle flies out of my hold. Pulling it back, I push it closed behind me.
Taking a moment to look around, the first thing I notice is how choppy the ocean is—like really, really choppy, and not as in good surf conditions.
Suddenly, the whole sky is engulfed by black swirling storm clouds. Shit, a storm is coming to shore. I need to clear the patio after the party last night.
Just then the palm trees start bending precariously to one side as though they are going to fall over or get blown away like feathers, and I know I have to hurry.
Struggling against the intensity of the wind, I start to make my way through the sandy beach and head around to the outdoor patio. The very loud roar above the rumbling of thunder is the howling of the wind gaining strength.
That is not a good sign.
The roar only gets louder and louder with each passing second. The sound is as though a gigantic train is approaching, which obviously out here on the beach is impossible. Now hurrying even faster to open my gate, I rush onto the patio just as I see a white curtain of rain approaching.
Needing to push the furniture against the house, I move the easy things first. The umbrella over the table is a struggle, but I’m finally able to close it.
The lights Makayla had hung last night slam against the wooden beams of the trellis above me and shatter to the ground like confetti. And then with the next whip of wind the sky opens up, with fat, cold drops of rain crashing down all around me.
Great!
Trying to avoid the shards of glass, I push the chairs against the house and then move to shove the table up close as well. Half-filled glasses and bottles of wine tumble over and roll to the ground, and I’m torn between clearing everything off and just pushing the table out of harm’s way with everything still on top of it.
Raindrops splatter harder, stinging my skin. The wind whips the ends of my hair, tangling it, but I don’t take the time to tie it back. I need to move this table.
The kitchen door opens, but I can’t look up. I’m too busy trying to push the very heavy iron table against the wall and avoid getting assaulted by the glass on top of it.
When hands grab the iron lip and my struggle comes to an end, I slowly cast my eyes up, expecting . . . no, hoping . . . to see Brooklyn. Still, I already know it’s not my roommate, but my roommate’s brother.
The crinkle, tickle, tease on the back of my neck gave it away the moment I heard the creak of the hinges from the barnlike kitchen door.
I suck in a huge breath, trying to ease the tightness compressing my chest. And then I meet his eyes, but for only a moment before I let my Keen-starved gaze take the rest of him in.