“Curls? You hated me because of my hair?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“All I know is that judging me for that would be like me judging you for your hairstyle choices.” I stare pointedly at the shaved sides, hidden beneath that mass of long black hair.

“Maybe. But at least I didn’t sit at that cafeteria table every day at lunch and gossip about everyone.”

“Ivy . . . half the time I wasn’t even listening to what anyone was saying,” I answer truthfully. There were so many rumors milling around, I didn’t even remember the one about Ivy being locked up in a mental institution until tonight, when she brought it up. All I really cared about was that I wouldn’t be at the receiving end of one of the nastier ones.

But Ivy has clearly never forgotten, all these years later.

“That group was always talking about someone. Laughing at someone.” She shakes her head. “High school sucked for me.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, it wasn’t so great for me either.”

She tips her head back and throws out a huge, “Ha!”

“I’m serious, Ivy!”

“Most popular girl in school . . . perfect body . . . perfect face . . . valedictorian . . . sheriff’s daughter . . . surgeon’s daughter . . . freaking Rodeo Queen . . .” She bends each finger back on a hand, counting all the ways that my life sounds so wonderful on paper.

I start my own list, mimicking her finger-counting gesture. “Girl most talked about in school . . . girl who could never misbehave because her father was the sheriff . . . girl who most guys were afraid of dating because her father was the sheriff . . . girl who was never really sure who her true friends were . . . And how do you remember so much about me, anyway?”

She twirls her coaster. “Did you even notice that our lockers were four apart my first year there?”

“I saw you in the hallways sometimes.” She had a tamer, almost mousy look to her back then. Less makeup, no tattoos. More plaid and loose-fitting blue jeans than lace and Goth I remember thinking she could be pretty, with a little bit of work.

Her voice drops its edge, leaving vulnerability behind. “Then why didn’t you ever say hi?”

I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out, because I don’t have an answer. Not a good one, anyway.

I’m saved from making something up by one of the men who stumbled out of the bar earlier, on our way in. He’s drunker and comes to a standstill in front of our table, his red-tinged, glossy eyes boring into me.

“Can I help you?” I finally ask, sharing a glance with Ivy.

He drops to one knee in front of me. “I need me an American wife so they’ll let me into America!” he professes in a slurred Irish accent, grabbing my hand and pulling it to his lips.

I tug but he holds on tight. I look to Ivy for help but she’s laughing. No one around seems at all uncomfortable. Several are cheering and clapping, in fact.

“Go on now, Killian. Before I boot you out.” River sets three shots on the table and then peels the guy’s grasp from my fingers. I revel in the heat of his palm as he hangs onto my hand for three long seconds, giving it a light squeeze before finally letting go.

“Thanks . . .” Superman. That’s now three times that he’s come to my rescue.

The sly twist of his mouth is so subtle I almost miss it. “You’re going to make me crack another bottle, if you keep this up. Locked yet?”

“What yet?” What does that mean?

“Ask us in another hour.” Ivy lifts her glass. River does the same. I groan, lifting mine.

“Cheers.” I watch him bring his to his mouth and pour it down like it’s nothing. I’m tempted to plug my nose to handle this but I don’t, seeing as he seemed impressed by Ivy’s tough-girl choice of hard liquor over beer.

River sees my sickened face and just laughs, collecting the empty glasses and heading back to the bar.

“God, how can you stomach this?” I stick my tongue out with disgust.

She shrugs. “We can call it a night if you can’t handle it.”

“No!” That came out a little too eager.

She glances over to the bar and then back. “He’s not your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.” She may be right, but making such a frank observation irritates me. She’s judging me again.

“Well . . . let’s see. There was Neil Allen, the preppy son of the mayor, who lived in a million-dollar house. Where is he now?”

“Harvard Law.”

“Right.” She drags that out with an obnoxious know-it-all voice. “You were with him for a long time.”

“Most of my junior and senior year.” Though I’ve known him all my life. I used to throw mud at him in the kindergarten playground. He was the captain of the ski and debate teams, honor roll; tall and blond and somewhat baby-faced, now that I think back to it. I don’t think he even started shaving until college. He was considered the boyfriend to have in high school from any parent’s point of view, and I had his eye for almost two years. I broke up with Neil before we both left for college, not willing to try a long-distance relationship while he was out East. That was the official excuse, anyway. I was ready to end it months before, but I didn’t have the heart. He was such a nice guy, and we had such an easy, calm relationship. That was part of the problem. While my friends were partying in Portland and Seattle, we were sitting at home, watching movies. Even the sex was boring. What teenager has boring sex?

“And your boyfriend in college, what was he like?”

“Who says I had one?”

Her steady gaze is drenched in amusement, like the very idea that I’d suggest I wasn’t tied down in college is preposterous.

“His name was Brody,” I admit reluctantly, though I won’t admit out loud that he reminded me of a slightly older version of Neil, in that he was tall, blond, and handsome in an average way. An intelligent guy, also from a small town.

“And he was in school for . . .”

“Philosophy major. He planned on doing his PhD and becoming a college professor.” We were together for almost three years, until I realized that I liked the idea of him—the comfortable hum of routine he brought to my life in Portland, while I was in school—but I didn’t love him. I made a clean break when I moved back to Sisters.

I don’t know if Ivy can somehow read my silent acknowledgment in her eyes, but she’s smirking like the Cheshire Cat. “Oh, and then there was a doctor, wasn’t there? Alex told me about him. I’m guessing him and this guy, here, don’t have a lot in common?” She must see the discomfort in my face because the smirk slips off and she offers a muttered, “Sorry.”

My eyes roam the bar. I’ll admit the pang in my chest now is nothing like it was before I met River. One date with this bartender and I may never think of “the surgeon” again. That tells me that maybe my pain over Aaron has less to do with missing him and more to do with missing the idea of him, the humiliation of being dumped because, let’s face it, if he really cared about me, my age wouldn’t matter.

When I was with him, I felt like I wasn’t far from a trip toward the altar with a well-respected, handsome doctor. I could see the pride in my parents’ smiles, the envy in my friends’ eyes. Which means I’ve now three times fallen for the concept of a relationship—and what that relationship looks like to the outside world—rather than the actual guy I’m with.