“I was arrested last night.”

Harrison immediately stops pouring the glass of beer he was about to hand me. He squares up and faces me full-on. “I’m sorry . . . did you just say arrested  ?”

I nod and reach across the bar, taking the half-full beer from him.

“I hope you’re about to elaborate,” he says, watching me take a long drink. I set the glass down on the bar and wipe my mouth.

“Arrested for possession.”

Harrison’s expression becomes a mixture of anger and nervousness. “Wait a second,” he says. He leans in and lowers his voice to a whisper. “You didn’t tell them I—”

I’m offended he would even ask that, so I cut him off before he even finishes the question. “Of course not,” I say. “I refused to say anything about where the pills came from. Unfortunately, that won’t help my situation when I show up for court. Apparently they cut you slack when you rat people out.” I laugh and shake my head. “That’s fucked up, huh? We teach kids that tattling is wrong but as adults, we’re rewarded for it.”

Harrison doesn’t respond. I can see all the words he wants to say, he’s just doing his best to keep them in.

“Harrison,” I say, leaning forward. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It’s my first offense, so I doubt I’ll get much . . .”

He shakes his head. “It’s not fine, Owen! I’ve been telling you to stop this shit for over a year now. I knew it would catch up with you and I hate being the one to say I told you so, but I fucking told you so about a million goddamn times.”

I exhale. I’m too tired to listen to this right now. I stand up and set a ten-dollar bill on the bar and I turn around and leave.

He’s right, though. He told me so. And he’s not the only one, because I’ve been telling myself this would catch up to me for a hell of a lot longer than Harrison has.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Auburn

Do you want a refill?”

I smile and say, “Sure,” to the waitress, even though I know I don’t need a refill. I should just leave, but there’s still a small part of me that hopes Lydia will show up. Surely she didn’t forget.

I debate whether or not to text her again. She’s over an hour late and I’m sitting here, pathetically waiting, hoping I don’t get stood up.

Not that she’s the first person to stand me up. That award goes to Owen Mason Gentry.

I should have known. I should have been prepared for it. That entire night with him seemed too good to be true, and the fact that I haven’t heard from him after three solid weeks only proves that my decision to forgo guys was a smart one.

It still stings, though. It hurts like hell because when he walked out my door that Thursday night, I felt so hopeful. Not just about meeting him, but because it made me think Texas wouldn’t be all that bad. I thought maybe for once, things were going to go my way and karma was going to cut me some slack.

As much as it hurt to realize he was full of shit, being stood up by Lydia hurts a little bit more than being stood up by Owen, because at least Owen didn’t stand me up on my birthday.

How could she forget?

I won’t cry. I won’t do it. I’ve shed enough tears over that woman and she’s not causing any more.

The waitress is back at the table, refilling my drink. My nonalcoholic drink.

I’m drinking a pathetic soda, sitting alone in a restaurant, being stood up for the second time this month, and it’s my twenty-first birthday.

“I’ll take the bill,” I say, defeated. The waitress gives me a look of pity as she lays the bill on the table. I pay it and leave.

I hate that I still have to walk past his studio on my way home from work. Or in this case, on my way home from being stood up. Sometimes the light is on in his apartment upstairs and I get the urge to set the place on fire.

Not really. That’s a little bit harsh. I wouldn’t burn his beautiful art.

Just him.

When I reach his building, I stop and stare at it. Maybe it’s worth walking an extra block or two from now on, just so I’ll never have to pass it again. Before I reroute myself, maybe I should leave a confession. I’ve been wanting to leave one for three weeks and tonight everything has lined up perfectly for me to finally be pissed enough to do so.

I walk to the front door of his building and stare at the slot while I reach inside my purse and pull out a pen. I don’t have any paper, so I dig around until I find the receipt from the fantastic birthday dinner I just shared with myself. I flip it over and press the receipt to the window and begin my confession.

I met this really great guy three weeks ago. He taught me how to dance, reminded me of what it feels like to flirt, walked me home, made me smile, and then YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, OWEN!

I press the button on the end of the pen to retract it. I put it back in my purse. Oddly enough, getting that out on paper actually made me feel a little better. I begin to fold the receipt but flatten it back out and retrieve my pen in order to add another sentence.

PS: Your initials are so stupid.

Much better. I slip the confession through the slot before I give myself enough time to think it through. I take a few steps away from the building and bid it farewell.

I turn toward my apartment and my phone sounds off. I pull it out and open my text.

Lydia: Sorry! I got sidetracked and it’s been such a crazy day. I hope you didn’t wait long. Heading back to Pasadena in the morning, but you’ll be at dinner Sunday, right?