Nothing. No one. That’s who you are.

Panic crept over Red’s skin, slimy and cold. He dragged a hand roughly through his hair, searched for an anchor, and found one: the sticky note he’d left Chloe on Friday morning, now taped to her desk. Taped, like she loved it, like it was there to stay. He focused on that sight as he grabbed his crawling, anxious memories by the throat. He wasn’t nothing, not to Chloe or anyone else who mattered, and definitely not to himself.

And then, as if to back him up, he heard her voice. “Meaningless sex is off the list.”

“You mean you changed it?”

“I did.”

His exhale was a rush of dizzy relief. He sagged against the bed as his numb limbs tingled back to life.

“I think that should affect the terms of the bet. She’s making it easier for herself.”

Chloe snorted. “I am not!”

“Fewer items is easier.”

“I replaced it,” Chloe said hotly. “I put Red on there.”

Something strange happened then. His organs just … just up and rearranged themselves. Shifted around like they were trying to make room at a full table. His heart was in his stomach. His stomach was lodged in his throat. His skin was tight, like it wanted to turn inside out. His eyes burned. His limbs went numb again. The ringing sound was back. His right hand ached. He couldn’t breathe.

That was a bad fucking sign, wasn’t it? He forced himself to inhale, gulping down air, but he barely felt it in his lungs and his head was light. The kaleidoscope of color that had surrounded him since last night leeched away until his world was gray. He was panicking and he needed to stop but he couldn’t. Fucking. Breathe. He clutched the bedsheets to remind himself of where he was, but all he felt was naked and ridiculous and fooled a-fucking-gain—

“It can’t be what it sounds like,” he murmured to himself, because his brain was rebelling but his mouth was still his.

Then his mind showed him a memory, like a convenient flashback in a badly made film: that first ride on his bike, with Chloe. Back when she’d mentioned her plan to get a life, and he’d assumed it was some kind of bad-girl bucket list. That she was chasing a thrill and trying to slum it, the same way Pippa would.

Only, Chloe was nothing like Pippa. Nothing like Pippa. There was no way she’d use him just to feel alive again. No way she’d see him as an item to cross off a list.

… Or a specimen to study through a window.

Fuck.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

After far too long, Chloe’s sisters took pity on her and left her to her “obvious sex fest.” Her cheeks were still burning when she finally returned to the bedroom. “Sorry about that,” she said. “They—Red, are you okay?”

He didn’t look okay.

He was sitting on the edge of her bed, his fingers white-knuckling the sheets, his chest heaving with each breath. His eyes were flat and lifeless. He stared at the plain, gray carpet with a focus so intense, she wondered if he could see things she didn’t.

That focus didn’t waver when he replied, his voice rough and uneven. “Yeah.”

The single word wrenched at something deep in her chest. He sounded wrong, wrong, wrong. “Are you sure? You seem—”

He stood, sharper than a knife. “I need some clothes.”

Anxiety churned in Chloe’s gut. Her skin prickled hot and cold all over. Something was going on, and she needed to find out what, but she couldn’t ask right now—not when he strode to the living room as if it was an effort not to run. He was upset, and he wanted to get dressed so they could discuss the problem like reasonable adults. That was all. Obviously that was all. She told herself that to stave off the old, terrifying panic that rose as he dragged on his clothes. His movements were jerky and desperate and frantic.

As if he couldn’t wait to leave.

No, she corrected herself. As if he couldn’t wait to have a lovely, mature conversation with her.

But when he was dressed, he picked up his bags. Her heart lurched. Just like the night they’d bumped into Aunt Mary, he seemed to be surrounded by invisible spikes, warding off all tenderness with the set of his shoulders and the muscle ticking at his jaw. But she didn’t care. She reached for him anyway. “Red—”

He jerked away from her outstretched hand as if she was toxic.

They stood in silence for a moment, wide-eyed and tense. Soaking in the aftermath of that near-automatic rejection. Then he blinked hard, seemed to pull himself together. Avoiding her gaze, he bit out, “Is it true? Am I on your list?”

Oh, God. He’d heard. That’s what this was about. Mortification hit her like a bullet, ripping through flesh and blood and bone to decimate her composure. He knew how much the list meant to her. Maybe he thought she was pathetic, and clingy, and all the other things Henry had called her before he’d left. But that didn’t sound right. That didn’t sound like Red, so what could be the problem?

“Chloe,” he said, tightly leashed anger singeing his words. “Answer me.”

She might be confused, but she wasn’t going to lie. “Yes.” His face shut down like his power had been cut. Suddenly, he was a cold, distant stranger, and she didn’t understand. “Why are you so upset?”

Just like that, he wasn’t blank anymore. A sort of horrified rage filled him, clear in the flat blade of his mouth and his empty gaze. It even brimmed from his voice. “Are you seriously doing this?” he asked. “What, are you trying to say I’m overreacting?”

“No,” she said immediately. “Absolutely not.” Her mind raced. Things were becoming clearer, but she didn’t know how to fix this tangle sensitively, so she went with plain facts. Obviously, he thought his presence on the list meant something awful. She could explain otherwise. She just had to be patient. “Just calm down, okay? Being on the list isn’t a bad thing.”

Disbelief joined his fury, like kerosene to a flame. He spoke rapidly, his whole body shaking. “Calm down? It’s not a bad thing? I’m not an idiot, Chloe. This whole time, I was—and you were just using me for your fucking—ticking boxes and laughing with your sisters about—”

“I would never do that and you know it!” she snapped, panic sharpening her breaths. “Red, listen to me. I put you on the list because you’re important.”

He dragged his hands through his hair so hard she knew it must have hurt. “Important like doing something bad?” he rasped, his tone harsh and mocking. “Didn’t you use me for that, too? And I thought it was fucking cute.”

She stiffened. “You don’t understand—”

His shout was ragged, ripped from his chest, a mix of anger and pain that burned her like acid. “Don’t tell me I don’t fucking understand. You will not make a fool out of me!”

A strained silence fell. He looked as shocked by his outburst as she felt. But the hollow emptiness between them birthed a desperate idea: she couldn’t make him trust her, not when he was so obviously spiraling, but she could show him the truth—if only he’d give her a chance. She’d find proof, find the list, and he’d come back to her and stop shaking, stop shouting, stop looking at her like she was someone else.