Sol: Tell me about your day.
Giving MJ my back, I let my fingers fly on the screen.
Me: Classes went well. Met this hot professor. We flirted. We kissed. Worked at the bookstore. Got a new stock delivery. Now I’m all dolled up. We are going dancing.
Three dots appear on the screen, then disappear. They appear again seconds later.
Sol: Hot professor, huh? He a better kisser than me?
My cheeks burn at the memory of his lips on mine. I cross my legs to squash the heat building there.
Me: No.
I pause. Take a deep breath. Lifting my hand, I position the camera and snap a picture. Before I can change my mind, I attach it to the message and hit send.
A response pops up immediately.
Sol: Beautiful. I’m kinda jealous of the professor. Is he taking you dancing?
Me: Oh my God. There’s no professor.
I send the text, then tap the call button. Sol answers on the first ring.
“There’s no professor,” I say. “You asked me about my day and . . . It was stupid of me to tell you that.”
He’s quiet for several seconds, then whispers, “So I’m a better kisser than your imaginary professor?”
“Stop gloating.”
He chuckles. “Yes or no, Gracie.”
Why the hell did I even joke about the professor?
“Tell me about your day,” I tell him, ignoring his question.
“Painful. I had PT. Finley loves to torture me,” he says, but there’s no heat in his words. In fact, it sounds like he enjoys it. Enjoys being around her and being tortured.
My stomach churns. “I bet she does,” I mutter under my breath.
There’s a pause. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Shit. I didn’t mean for the words to carry over the phone. “Grace?”
I huff out a breath and shut my eyes. Don’t do this, Grace. I press my mouth shut and lift my gaze to the ceiling. “She’s beautiful.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “What has that got to do with anything?”
I bite the inside of my cheek. I can’t bring myself to spit out what’s on my tongue because imagining Sol with anyone other than me makes me sick. Call me selfish, but I’m not willing to give him up. So I take a deep breath, and say, “Nothing. It has nothing to do with anything.”
“Grace.”
“Forget I said anything. I’m just . . . it’s just”—I shut my eyes tight—“I have to go,” I say quickly.
“Fine,” he snaps. “Whatever.”
The line goes dead. I pull the cell from my ear and stare at the screen. That is so unlike Sol.
“Was that Sol?” MJ asks, and I look over my shoulder. “What just happened? You look like someone broke your heart.”
“Yeah, it was him.” I shove the phone in my purse and grab my suede black-heeled boots and slip them on. “Ready to go?”
She straps her purse across her shoulder and props her hands on her hips. “Talk.”
“I’m being stupid.” She taps her shoe, one brow raised. “Finley Clarke.”
“His physical therapist?”
I nod. “I think he might have a little crush on her.”
“Has he said anything?”
“He talks about her a lot. Sol and I are not together, so I don’t know why I’m feeling like punching the wall at the thought of them together.”
“You both decided to take a time-out, right?”
I nod.
“Okay.” She purses her lips thoughtfully. “Sol has never had feelings for any girl other than you. It’s like this whole new world has opened up, and he can see. He works with his therapist three times a week.”
“I feel so much better,” I say sarcastically, feeling as if a knife has been driven through my stomach, and it just keeps turning, skewing my insides.
“Look. I know you don’t want to jump from one relationship to another when things have barely cooled down. But let me ask you something. If the world were to end today, would you look back and be happy with how you lived your life? Or would you regret not taking chances?”
I mull over her words, but I’m still repairing broken walls and trying to stay away like I promised Sol’s uncle. But how long can I hold back before the dam breaks? How long can I wish and be scared that I might mess things up again, but want them regardless?
My cell buzzes with a text. I dig it out and retrieve the message. “Zu is already at the bar. We need to go.”
She walks past me, pausing long enough to say, “Think about what I said, babe,” then heads to the door. I follow her out, unable to shake off the conversation Sol and I just had.
By the time we walk into the bar, a dark-haired man is setting up equipment on the stage. The microphone squeals before his deep voice comes through the speakers. “Testing one, two, three.”
“Right on time,” MJ says as we shoulder our way through the crowd, looking for Zulakya. I spot her near the bar.
“What took you guys so long?” she asks once MJ and I are finally seated across from her.
I point at my head. “It took ages to straighten my hair, and MJ was determined. What are we drinking?” I’m so ready to get this party started.
“First round is my treat. What can I get you?” she asks, standing up.
“Girl, you look hot. I love that top,” I tell her, taking in the black leggings, which make her legs look a mile long. Black knee-high boots and a black shirt that hugs her boobs and hips. The gold trimmings around the neck break the color pattern.
“This old thing?” She fiddles with the top, then tucks strands of hair behind her ear and looks away. “I got it on sale last year.”
“Don’t do that, Zu,” MJ says. “You look hot. Take a compliment and roll with it.”
Zulakya shifts on her feet nervously, then sits back down. “Remember when I told you that my ex-boyfriend was abusive? I’d made a habit of dressing up for him. To please him. He’d say I looked ugly. Stupid. I learned to make myself small so he wouldn’t find something to say.”
“What a piece of shit,” I fume at the same time MJ mutters, “Glad you left him, that worthless bastard.”
“Leaving him, walking away, was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. And the best thing. So you”—she points at me—“you had two amazing guys who were good to you. And from what you’ve said, it looks like Sol is not ready to let you go, so stop second-guessing yourself. And MJ, hold on to Ivan. He’s one of a kind.”
MJ and I exchange a knowing look. Zulakya shoots us a perturbed glance, and asks, “What’s that look? The one you two just gave each other?”
MJ clears her throat. “Ivan and I decided to take a break.”
“What? When?” Zulakya asks, eyes wide. “Wait. Don’t answer that. Let me grab the drinks first. What are you drinking?” After giving her our order, she stands up just as a shadow falls on our table.
“Hey, ladies,” a gruffy voice greets. Glancing up, I find Mesh, his gaze moving from me to MJ to Zulakya. He takes her in, and says, “You look beautiful.”
Zulakya mumbles something unintelligible before hurrying toward the bar. A smirk appears on Mesh’s face, which is the most animated expression I have ever seen on him. He turns and follows her.