Gripping my glass too hard, I weave through the room, stopping every few feet to accept congratulations or someone wanting to talk.

“Excuse me,” I tell each person. “Nature calls.”

Best excuse I got, but it still doesn’t prevent people from trying to chat me up. By the time I make it to the terrace doors, I’m ready to lose it. God, this PR bullshit is only going to get worse in the NFL.

Frowning, I slip out into the cool night air and take a deep breath to clear my head. But my pulse doesn’t slow as I pull out my phone. I sag against the wall. The text isn’t from Mac. Disappointment and relief churn around in my gut, as I peer at the unknown number, ready to delete the text.

Unknown: Hey there, sexy mountain of man-flesh. Having fun at your suit parade?

Sexy mountain of man-flesh? Why does that ridiculous name sound familiar? I rub a hand over my face and then it hits me. Fiona calls me that. What the hell is Fiona doing texting me?

GrayG: Yeah, it’s awesome. What’s up, Fi?

As I wait for her to answer, I stare out across the dark sweep of trimmed lawn. Everything is blue and gray, the moon hanging low along the horizon as wispy clouds drift past. The scent of snow is in the air. My hand vibrates.

LittleFi: Just wanted to let you know that I’m watching out for our girl tonight. Don’t worry, she’s having fun. Catch ya’ later, sexy.

A picture pops up, and it’s a fucking punch to my throat. Mac’s on the dance floor, her long arms waving awkwardly in the air and gleaming with sweat, her dark hair plastered to her face as she smiles—fucking glows—with happiness. And some ass-fuck frat boy has his hands all over her. I zero in on his big, dumb-fuck palm pressing against her belly, his hips grinding into her ass as he clutches her thigh, holding her against his—

My shout echoes over the terrace, followed by the sharp crack of glass impacting against stone. Panting, I glance down at my empty hand and then at the carnage that used to be my phone, lying some twenty feet away. I hadn’t even known I’d thrown it.

And I don’t care. Every inch of me hurts, a dull, pulling pain, as if I’m slowly being torn apart from the inside out. My throat seems to swell, closing down, convulsing. And I blink down at my shiny wingtips as if trying to make sense of how they got on my feet. But all I can see is that picture, hear Ivy’s voice in my head, telling me that she needs space, that she doesn’t want me.

The muffled sound of laughter from inside grows loud and clear, and a blast of warmth hits the side of my face. I turn. A girl stands framed in the doorway, her body slim and tight, her smile welcoming.

“Hey,” she says, strolling over, each step sending her hips swaying. “What are you doing out here all alone?”

Everything in me recoils at the thought of talking to this girl. I want to go home and crawl into bed. Maybe sleep for a week. But I push deep down inside myself, remember the Gray I used to be. The one who had fun and never thought about anything real. The Gray who never felt pain.

I pull out a smile. “Doesn’t look I’m alone anymore.”

That’s all she needs to hear.

Nineteen

Ivy

Making pain aux raisins is soothing. The steps I have to go through. The yeasty scent of dough and the warm fragrance of almond cream. I push myself, creating dozens of delicate, buttery layers. Rolling and folding, rolling and folding.

A fine ache spreads along my neck and shoulders. It feels good, this movement. Proactive in the face of my inner silence. Music plays and I sing along. Rolling and folding. Layer after layer. The dough is like cool satin against my palms.

The phone rings, and I rub my hands on a rag before answering.

It’s Fi. “Hey there, mama bear.”

“Hey.” I try to insert some enthusiasm into my reply. I really do. But it’s an epic fail.

Unfortunately, Fi notices. “What’s up with you?”

“Nothing.” Which is true. Life has basically become a void. I’d tried to go out, have fun. Dance with guys and pretend I loved it. But I’ve never been very good at pretending.

We’re both quiet for a minute. Me not being able to respond without sobbing to Fi, and she’s playing detective. This becomes obvious when she says with suspicion, “Are you listening to Shadowboxer?”

Sometimes it sucks to have a sister who knows me inside and out.

“No.” I flick off my speakers.

“Why are you listening to my moody namesake?”

Fi knows perfectly well that I listen to Fiona Apple when I’m in a funk. “What are you, the DJ police?”

“Yes, and you’re in violation of drowning in sad-sack music for the emotionally imbalanced.”

Giving up the ghost, I confess. “I miss Gray.” I draw in a deep, shaking breath. “I miss him like a loose tooth.”

“What?” She laughs, clearly confused.

“You know, it’s like a constant ache, and even though I should ignore it, I can’t help but prod.” Provoke that itchy, dull pain that digs deeper the more I touch on it.

“Ah¸ a vicious circle of self-torture,” Fi says. I can picture her nodding now.

I don’t say anything, but pluck at a spot of dried flour on my apron.

Fi’s gentle voice drifts through the phone. “Do you want me to come home tonight?”

She’s been spending more time at her boyfriend’s house. I’m almost envious, but I’m not going to drag her over here. “No. I’m okay.”