And then . . . it all goes to bloody hell.

“I can’t do this with you, Henry.” She gazes down at the bed. “I can’t be with you.”

“You’re with me right now.”

She shakes her head. “Not in that way.”

“Of course you can. I think you’re amazing.”

She looks up at me then, with fear and sadness slashed across her face. “You do now, but you’re a Willoughby.”

I scratch my head. “Isn’t that like, a kangaroo?”

She squeezes her eyes tight and it’s almost like she’s stuttering. Like she can’t make the words come out. And when they do, I wish they’d stayed where they were.

“No, a Willoughby—from Sense and Sensibility. He was the character Marianne fell in love with. He was wild and inappropriate, selfish and thoughtless, and he crushed her.”

“Sarah, you’re not making any sense.”

“I can’t be with you because I’m waiting for a Colonel Brandon.”

“Who the fuck is Brandon?”

“He’s serious and maybe a little boring, but he loves Marianne. He’s dependable and steady, romantic and proper. That’s what I want; that’s who I’m supposed to be with.”

“Proper?” The word sticks in my throat like a thorn. I slide off the bed and pace, going over her ramblings. “Let me make sure I have this right: you can’t kiss me because some wanker from a book named Willoughby fucked over some other girl from a book named Marianne?”

She gives a little huff and wags her hands. “When you say it like that, it sounds mad.”

“That’s because it is mad!”

Sarah twists her hands together. “He broke her heart. It almost killed her.”

I look down at her, feeling something breaking inside my own chest.

“And you think I would do that to you?”

“I know you would.”

“Because I’m a Willoughby?”

Her chin jerks in a nod.

“Because I’m thoughtless and selfish and just don’t measure up. And because you’re waiting for someone better to come along.”

Sarah shakes her head. “This isn’t coming out right.”

There’s a different kind of pain when you’re injured by someone you truly care about. It runs deeper, hurts longer, like a burn—it starts off stinging and smarting, then it blisters and spreads inside you, eating away at tender flesh.

Leaving in its wake a gaping hole.

I cross my arms and smirk, like I don’t give a flying fuck about anything.

“How’s the view from that ivory tower, Sarah? Must be lovely judging everyone beneath you, while keeping yourself too high to touch.”

She rises to her knees on the bed. “It’s not like that. I care about you, it’s just—”

“I’m selfish and irresponsible and inappropriate—I heard you the first time. You could’ve saved yourself all those syllables and just called me a dick.”

“Henry . . .”

“I think you’re a coward. See what I did there? Simple, concise.”

Her eyes snap up to me. She blinks and glances away.

“I’m not a coward. I just . . . like my life how it is. I like . . .”

I wander over to the “nook” and grab the first book I see. “You don’t have a life. You hide in this room and you cower behind these books. It’s fucking sad.”

Sarah’s voice is gentle, but staunch. “I realize I’ve hurt your feelings, but there’s no need to be cruel.”

I laugh. “You think you’ve hurt my feelings?”

“If this temper tantrum is any indication, I’m sure of it.”

“This isn’t a temper tantrum—this is a wake-up call.” I wave the book at her. “These aren’t your friends, Sarah—there’s no sodding Colonel Brandon popping off the page coming to love you.”

“I know that!” And then her eyes follow the book in my hand. “Henry, be careful—it’s fragile.”

And that just pisses me off more. Her concern for this inanimate, stupid thing.

“Do you even see me? Christ, I’m standing right here—real and, unlike you, actually living.” I wave my arms around, swinging the book by its back cover. “And you’re more concerned with fucking paper and ink!”

And that’s all she wrote.

With a crack, the spine of the book snaps in half, and loose pages fly off, fluttering all over the room, then falling to the floor like a flock of wounded white birds.

“No!”

The absolute heartbreak in Sarah’s voice cuts through my own, vanquishing my anger and leaving behind a residue of regret.

She falls to her knees, gathering the pages and snatching the broken book from my hand.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” I say quietly, in case she didn’t know.

Her dark hair falls over her shoulders, hiding her face.

“Sarah, did you hear me? I’m sorry.”

Why does it feel like that’s all I end up saying lately?

Her shoulders shudder; I think she’s crying. And my stomach feels as if it’s full of worms—wiggling and squirming disgustingly.

“I’ll give you the money to replace it. It’s a book. I mean . . . there’s more than one.” I stumble on like an utter fucking prat.

“Was it very valuable?”